


coaxed you into paradise and left you there

by princessoftheworlds



Series: fool me once, fool me twice [9]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Immortal Ianto Jones, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Finding each other after two thousand years did not guarantee a happy ending. Several years into Jack and Ianto's marriage, a routine favor for Torchwood ends up pulling Ianto into the inexorable gravity of a hostile planet and the even murkier reaches of his own mind. Will Jack be able to save him, or is he fated to lose his lover after barely having found him?
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Lisa Hallett/Ianto Jones
Series: fool me once, fool me twice [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819213
Comments: 28
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [that_last_dance_of_chances](https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_last_dance_of_chances/gifts).



> Happy Christmas Eve and early Merry Christmas! Also, very happy birthday to Estelle! Thank you so much for being such an ardent fan of my writing, really supporting all of us Torchwood stans majorly, your amazing and much-appreciated comments, and just generally being awesome! You're an icon of this fandom, and it wouldn't be the same without you!
> 
> You asked for a janto hurt/comfort fic where Ianto's the one hurt and gets comforted by Jack. I already had this little guy brewing, which fit perfectly. I honestly lowkey very much love this fic sooooooo much ahhhhhh. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I call this my Orpheus and Eurydice AU, and you, my dear readers, will see why very soon. I don't have a posting schedule since I also have a million other fics and like 3 series that I'm currently writing, but I am hoping to post the second part some time next month and the final part not much later. Basically, I hope to be done with this fic by the end of February lmao.
> 
> Thank you to Bel for the idea and preliminary editing and for title attempt number one, Annika for betaing and for the actual title, and Alicia and Vi for hearing me out as I rambled about this fic. Enjoy!
> 
> Title is from Taylor Swift's "coney island."

**6000**

**Augustan Galaxy**

**Ianto**

_The Myfanwy_ rattles unexpectedly, its alarm siren blaring, and Ianto is instantly awake, lurching off his bunk, mind cast almost two thousand years previous to another spaceship called _The Myfanwy_ drifting through an unknown galaxy.

He stuffs his feet into his boots, hastily lacing them up, slipping his coat on, checking the pockets for the sonic screwdriver and psychic paper he never leaves behind. His trusty vortex manipulator is buckled on his right wrist as usual. 

The entire ship is glowing red with emergency lighting. Ianto’s pulse quickens. He hurries faster to the navigation cabin and checks the system.

When Ianto had gone to bed last night, he’d been well on course for Chapus, the human colony world where he’s to spend several months as an anthropologist and researcher for Torchwood. Now, _The Myfanwy,_ according to both the emergency warnings and the flight logs, is being rapidly pulled into the powerful orbit of a nearby planet.

“ _Oh, fuck,_ ” Ianto says as the ship lurches again and he nearly tumbles to the floor. He only catches a nearby railing just in time, pulling himself up and holding himself steady as the shaking becomes constant. As the floor tiles ripple beneath his feet, his body starting to tilt forward and float slightly from the sudden lack of gravity, he dives forward for the captain’s chair and straps himself in, fingers beginning to fly over the ship’s controls.

The lurching intensifies before briefly stilling. Then comes an awful sensation of freefall, the sickening rush of adrenaline and gravity shocking Ianto’s body, stomach turning inside out, as the ship begins to plunge downwards.

It’s oddly reminiscent of being on a rollercoaster except much, much, _much_ more deadly.

There’s a sharp chime, drawing Ianto’s attention back to _The Myfanwy_ ’s controls.

“ _Warning, warning,_ ” says the ship’s on-board computer. “ _Expected collision in twenty minutes. Chances of survival...zero._ ”

Ianto blinks, a sudden lump forming in his throat. Well, that doesn’t bode well for him, even as an immortal.

“Computer,” he says. “What can I do? Can we fight the gravitational orbit? Reverse the ship’s thrusters perhaps?”

The computer chimes again. “ _Searching...searching. I am sorry, Ianto. I have come to the conclusion that reversing the thrusters will only delay the inevitable impact._ ”

He swallows down that lump, forcing his trembling fingers to steady as he glances down towards the shiny silver ring on his finger. If he weren’t gripping the console for dear life, he would be worrying away at it right now. 

He’s sure he’s gone pale. “Computer,” he orders in a steely voice, the one that always forces Jack to listen, no matter how dire the argument. Except for the last one, the most recent one. “Engage the thrusters. Full throttle.”

The navigation cabin is becoming unusually warm, and the coat Ianto wears drags unwelcomingly against his skin.

“ _I’m afraid that isn’t possible,_ ” the computer says apologetically. “ _Power is still being diverted to other emergency systems. We would not be able to maintain full throttle for more than a few minutes._ ”

“What other emergency systems?” Ianto asks urgently, smoothing his hands over the controls. The ship is pitching forward, gravity forcing him back against his seat, the buckles cutting into his skin. The heat in the cabin is increasing; when he peeks out the main window, he can see a distant reddish splotch that he presumes to be the planet hurtling into his field of view. There’s also a faint glow beginning to form around the ship’s nose as it cuts through the planet’s atmosphere.

“ _Mainly oxygen, lighting, navigation, heating, and the distress signal. Also, artificial gravity is failing._ ”

A hysterical, almost desperate laugh tears itself from Ianto’s throat. His heart is beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

“ _Impact is inevitable,_ ” he parrots in the computer’s artificial, soothing tone.

“ _Yes, Ianto. I am afraid that is correct._ ”

“That’s great,” Ianto snarks, but it’s more tired than anything.

The computer makes a faint buzzy sound that Ianto likens to it clearing its throat. “ _Might I suggest, Ianto, that you say your goodbyes… perhaps to Captain Harkness._ ”

His grip around the controls tightens. “You know I can come back from this, right, Computer?” The ship lurches again, and his head is knocked up. Eventually, he lowers it, grateful that the ship hasn’t started tumbling and turning over itself.

The edges of his vision are starting to go hazy, his breath catching slightly in his lungs. His fingers tremble even more. His eyes feel heavy, face incredibly dry. 

“ _Yes, Ianto. I do know that,_ ” replies the computer. “ _I also know that in times of distress, humans seek comfort and closure from loved ones._ ”

“Oh,” Ianto says absentmindedly. “That’s nice… right! Computer, begin recording please!” 

“ _Beginning recording!_ ” chirps the computer.

Ianto wonders about the picture he makes - eyes wild, blood drained from his face, body tense. He wonders how his husband will react to receiving this message.

_What to say?_ he wonders. _What is there to say?_

“Right, then,” he begins awkwardly, staring straight at the blinking light on the ship console where he knows the camera to be. “Hi, Jack. Um. I’m currently strapped down,” - and here he laughs hysterically again - “in _The Myfanwy_ and not in the way we both like. The ship’s about to crash land on a nearby planet, and it doesn’t look like it’ll be a particularly fun death.” He smiles sardonically.

“The computer has advised me to say my goodbyes,” he continues, “so, um.” He slips his fingers from where they grip the console to clutch tightly at his knees, squeezing down so hard he thinks he hears his bones creak, but he doesn’t feel any pain. In fact, he doesn’t feel much at all besides the buzzy adrenaline rushing through his blood, the odd hot and cold sensations warring in his body, and a faint sense of surreality.

“ _We are passing through the radiation belt, Ianto,_ ” the computer announces suddenly, its voice becoming staggered and glitchy, distorted almost beyond deciphering, and then there is pain so _intense_ that he blacks out, body bucking back against his seat, chest feeling like it’s caving in. He finds himself coming back to - “ _We are passing through the radiation belt._ ”

When he comes back a few minutes later, blinking hazily, most of his vision dark, his entire body is on fire. He raises a hand before his face and finds that the skin on his palms, going past his wrists, has blistered into angry red splotches. He can feel similar splotches across his body and face, skin burning like ants are crawling all over him.

He’s stuck in a spaceship, hurtling towards death. 

“I love you, Jack,” Ianto blurts out, voice hoarse, vaguely aware that he has been screaming. He grits his teeth through the pain. “I want you to remember that despite how we left things, I still love you. And I hate that _that_ was how we left things. I didn’t want it to happen that way, but…” He shrugs helplessly. _C’est la vie._ What else could have been done when married to someone as bullheaded as Jack? They couldn’t have stayed, lived, in that happy bubble they had forever. Something had to change, no matter how hard Jack kept clinging. “I just… remember that I _do_ love you, no matter what happened.”

Ianto smiles sadly, tears he can’t remember crying dripping down his cheeks. “Come find me, Jack. Come find me like I found you.”

He swallows down the lump in his throat that has returned, wiping the tears away from his face with the edge of his coat. 

“Computer,” he says. “End recording.”

“ _Recording ended._ ” 

“Good.”

As his vision slips and he begins to black out again, Ianto Jones, boy from Newport, former PA to Yvonne Hartman, Torchwood Three operative, immortal, and husband to Jack Harkness, settles back against his seat and prepares to embrace death. Again.

* * *

**5999**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Ianto**

It’s the message that starts off all of it, the fighting, the arguments, the cold shoulders, and Ianto leaving without so much as a goodbye.

Several years after Jack and Ianto marry and settle down for domesticity and happiness on the Boeshane Peninsula, Ianto receives a message from the current Torchwood director, one of the few individuals to know that Jack and Ianto are alive and immortal, on his vortex manipulator. They ask Ianto to travel to the human colony world, Chapus, where strange _Torchwood_ things have been happening and spend several months there at the very least as a researcher. If Ianto wishes to, that is.

“No,” Jack says, eyes flashing, when Ianto first tells him about it, before he can even explain why he thinks it’s a good idea. “No. Tell them no.”

Ianto grits his teeth, sighing. “You can’t just tell me no, Jack. It’s my choice. And it’s only a few months. I’d be back in the blink of an eye.”

Jack scowls, and it’s not his playful scowl; it’s his you’re-not-going-to-do-this scowl. The one where he expects everything to be obeyed. The same scowl he often wore as Torchwood director when Owen refused an order or Gwen stretched his patience. Ianto feels a sudden spike of very real anger emerge from his simmering frustration; he knew it would be difficult to convince Jack, but he didn’t truly anticipate how much. “I still say no. You don’t owe Torchwood anything.”

He chooses not to argue with that and instead changes tactics. “You’re just being overprotective,” he tells Jack, and watches his husband’s scowl become more pronounced, eyes hardening. “I’ll come back, I promise. You won’t lose me again.”

He reaches out to rub Jack’s wedding ring with his thumb. 

_It’s me,_ he’s saying. _You won’t lose me again. You’ll never lose me again, for as long as the universe should continue to exist._

But Jack isn’t listening. “That’s not what it is,” he says stubbornly, and when he sees Ianto’s nose flare in anger, he amends himself with a “Not completely.” He places his palms flat on the dining table. “We’ve just gotten married. It’s only been a few years. Why does Torchwood need you? Why does it have to be _you?_ ”

“Because one of my duties, besides serving you coffee and making sure Myfanwy and the Weevils were fed,” Ianto points out, “used to be organizing the archives. I’m an archivist, damnit, and a damned good one. Torchwood needs someone with my skills. That’s why they asked.”

“But why does it have to be _you?_ ” Jack continues to grumble. “Surely there’s other archivists in the entire organization! What can you do that the others can’t?”

Ianto forces himself to breathe, to take a moment and try to see everything from Jack’s perspective. But with every subsequent breath he takes, all he can see is how Jack is being overprotective and demanding and possessive. “None of that matters,” he says finally. “What is important, what does matter, is that the Torchwood director asked me and me alone…” He takes a hesitant breath. “And I already told them yes.”

“ _You did what?_ ” shouts Jack suddenly, leaning forward, eyes widen and outraged, mouth twisted into a nasty frown. He slams a hand on the table. “Why _the fuck_ would you do that?”

Ianto bristles. “Because I wanted to. Because the mission genuinely intrigued me. Because I thought it would be good for me.” _Good for us,_ he doesn’t add, but Jack knows he meant it anyways.

Jack is already shaking his head. “I forbid it. You can’t go.”

Now Ianto scowls, arms crossed over his chest. “You can’t forbid it. I’m my own man, _Captain._ ” He inhales sharp, ragged breaths. “Besides, you aren’t my captain anymore, Jack. You’re just my husband.” He launches to his feet, the chair screeching backwards behind him.

“Ianto, _wait!_ ” Jack calls as he strides away, but Ianto doesn’t look back to see Jack’s hurt expression and subdued demeanor.

Their arguments don’t stop there. In fact, both men are just beginning. As the mission date draws nearer, Jack and Ianto argue more and more, rehashing the same points _over_ and _over_ again but always reaching a standstill that has one of them stalking away. More and more days are spent ignoring each other. Silent meals, silent days, silent nights. There’s always a good foot between them in bed, and Ianto doesn’t think he’s ever felt so cold and lonely, though he knows he has and despite Jack being _right there._ But also not.

Their marriage has hit its first real low point.

The worst argument comes the night before Ianto is to leave. Lounging on their bed, Jack watches Ianto pack shirts and trousers into his rucksack and - for the _countless_ time - tells Ianto how he thinks this is a horrible idea with a completely nonchalant expression.

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Ianto retorts, and doesn’t bother watching the hurt spread across Jack’s face.

Jack clambers forward until he’s kneeling right next to Ianto’s rucksack and reaches a hand to gently cup Ianto’s cheek, stroking his thumb against Ianto’s cheekbone. It takes everything Ianto has not to lean into Jack’s touch, and Jack notices, scowling.

“You know you don’t owe Torchwood anything, Ianto,” Jack repeats, as he’s been doing for _months_ now, and Ianto can no longer take it.

“No, Jack,” he snaps. “We owe Torchwood _everything._ Without Torchwood, I would have had no purpose. I wouldn’t have met Yvonne or met Lisa,” - still the same spike of grief at her name that will seemingly never fade - “and I wouldn’t have ever met you.” 

_I would have died an aimless Welshman from an estate,_ he means. _I would marry and have kids, but I would never be happy. Not truly._

“So we owe Torchwood everything,” he says, voice thick.

“Ianto,” begins Jack, but Ianto’s just getting started.

He snorts bitterly. “It’s not like Torchwood ever leaves you alone. It burrows into your blood, into your bones. What is normal life without Torchwood?”

“That’s not fair,” Jack tries, eyes indecipherable.

“Look at Gwen, Jack,” Ianto says, tossing aside the shirt he was attempting to fold and focusing entirely on their argument now. “She had a normal life before she met you. She was a police officer. Then she became Torchwood. Nearly lost Rhys a dozen times before they were married. She rebuilt Torchwood for you. She had a life, kids, a family, but in the end, she came back to Torchwood.” He’s shouting now. “She’s trapped there, an AI, an unending presence, because in the end, Torchwood still needed her. It _took and it took and it took, and there is no escape for her._ ” He quiets down. “There is no escape for me. No escape for us.”

“Fine, Ianto,” Jack says eventually, “but that doesn’t mean you have to go now. Doesn’t mean you have to leave me.”

Ianto grits his teeth. “Don’t you see, Jack?” he asks, voice raised again. “I have to. Torchwood is calling me, and I have to heed the call. I think I need to, in fact.”

Jack slips off the bed and stands to face him, arms spread wide in a challenge. His voice is deadly serious. “Why, Ianto? Tell me why you have to go.”

“Because I spent two thousand years searching for you,” he blurts out, and these words are slipping out of a place fuelled by anger but mostly hurt and frustration. “I spent two thousand years searching for you, and I deserve to do something different!”

The effect is instantaneous. Ianto immediately regrets his words; they are true, but they weren’t meant to be said this way. And Jack? Oh, Jack instantly goes quiet, face shutting down with this awful, _awful_ expression that Ianto would kill to never see again on this man he loves more than life itself.

“Jack,” he tries quietly, their roles suddenly reversed. “Jack, I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t mean it.”

Jack ducks his head and steps far away from Ianto’s reach. He doesn’t meet Ianto’s eyes. “I’m sure you didn’t,” he finally says, sounding withdrawn. “I’m sorry you wasted your time looking for me. I’m sorry you had to look for me in the first place.”

_I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. I’m sorry you came back after Thames House._

“Jack,” Ianto pleads, eyes filling with tears, but Jack has blocked off his ears, has blocked off his heart now, and Ianto _hates_ that he was the reason.

They go to bed angry and upset again, and Jack sleeps on the furthest edge of their bed as possible. Ianto, wrapped up tightly in a blanket and quivering with sleeplessness and regret, curses their decision to purchase such a large bed.

When morning comes, rays of the Boeshane sun breaking through the gauzy curtain at the window, Jack stirs awake in their bed and finds that he’s alone. Ianto’s rucksack is gone; his side is cold. 

Jack gathers Ianto’s abandoned blanket and draws it over his shoulders. Then he gazes at the wall blankly, waiting for the tears to come.

* * *

Faintly golden sunlight drifts through the neat bedroom, casting a bright glare against the eyelids of the occupants of the cozy bed. Stirring beneath the soft sheets, Ianto quietly moans and cuddles against the side of the warm body next to him. They lay together in contented peace for uncountable minutes until the silence is shattered by the shrieking of an alarm. Both groan.

The other occupant of the bed rolls over, slamming a hand towards the alarm clock and lifting their head to peek at the time, and bites back a curse.

“Time to get up?” asks Ianto amusedly, words slurring with sleep.

“Yeah,” says a quiet feminine voice. “Time to get the kiddos up for preschool.”

Unknowingly, Ianto frowns; the voice hadn’t been what he was expecting. He turns over, but any doubt, any expectation of a familiar, solid male body, evaporates when he finds the lithe limbs and smooth dark skin and clever eyes and gorgeous smile of his wife, Lisa Hallett.

“It’s your turn,” he tells her, pouting. “I got them ready yesterday.”

Lisa laughs kindly, winding her arms around her husband’s neck and snuggling closer. Her bare legs drift against his, making Ianto acutely aware that they are both naked, and his cock takes sudden interest. “No,” she tells him, smirking, “we decided yesterday that this entire week it was your turn.”

That’s right. They had.

“Could I convince you otherwise?” Ianto asks mischievously, and he cants his head to press his lips to Lisa’s, rolling them together until she sprawls on top of him for their sudden morning snog. 

Grimacing, she pulls away. “No kissing before you brush your teeth,” she says, running her tongue against her teeth with an outraged expression Ianto privately finds adorable.

Ianto sighs. “Well, then,” he replies, and flips them back so she’s beneath him again, delving a hand between her legs, “there’s no kissing involved here.”

Her protests about lacking time and having to get up to get ready quickly turn to moans as Ianto works his deft fingers along her warm folds, stroking and applying _just enough_ pressure until she’s squirming between him, _soaking wet._ Lisa spreads her thighs, and he pushs inside her until her legs wrap tightly around his back.

Their bodies move in symphony, well-learned to each other. As he thrusts, she welcomes him in, her walls fluttering around his cock, Lisa gasping and keening as Ianto mouths down the slope of her breasts, worshipping her as he always does. In turn, she squeezes down on him and runs her nails along the back of his neck, where his hairline ends, just like she knows he likes. 

He spills into her with a quiet moan of _Lisa_ before pulling out and burying his head between her thighs, wringing wonderful whines and whimpers and breathy gasps from her until she quivers, her thighs bearing down tightly around his head, and comes.

Lisa slumps back to the bed, panting, and gives him an affectionate look. “Okay, we did have time for that, but now you have to go wake up our children unless you want _them_ to come find us.” When he cuddles into the blankets, she smacks his bare arse, and he hisses. “Go, you lazy bastard.”

“Okay, okay,” he acquiesces, and reluctantly slips from the bed, pulling back on the sweats and sleep shirt he’d abandoned the night previous when he and Lisa had fallen into bed. Knowing that Lisa will eventually barricade herself in the bathroom to get ready, he stumbles down the hall to their toddlers’ bedroom and pushes the door open, only to find both girls already awake and playing with their dolls on the floor.

He blinks before desperately hoping that he and Lisa had not been too loud or that the soundproofing in their flat is enough. 

“What are the two of you doing awake?” he asks, kneeling down beside the twins as he eyes their dolls curiously. 

“Playing with our dolls, Dad,” Eira says wisely as Elinor nods, and Ianto attempts to stifle his laugh. Lisa keeps saying that the older and older the twins get, the more they behave like their father.

Funny to think that as a kid himself, Ianto could not have imagined himself having kids. Then he met Lisa. Now, he can’t imagine life without Lisa, Eira, or Elinor; he adores all of them.

Ianto smiles, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind Eira’s ear - both girls have inherited Lisa’s coloring and eyes but also his hair type and facial features. “That was a good plan, but now it’s time for both of you to put your dolls away and to get ready for preschool.” His tone is soft but stern, and both girls, despite their severe pouts, obey.

He helps Eira into jeans and a green jumper, but when he attempts the same for Elinor, she afixes him with the sternest expression he’s seen on a three-year-old until he’s forced to trade out the matching green jumper for a red-striped one, similar to a tie she’s seen him wear. 

Not even four years old, and they are both already seeking their own individuality. Ianto fears their teen years.

He checks the contents of their backpacks and adds the folders full of their homework before carrying both backpacks to the kitchen, ushering both girls before him.

He pours them both small glasses of orange juice and bowls of a cereal that he and Lisa had found as an acceptable compromise half-way between disgustingly healthy adult cereal and the colorful sugar nightmares marketed to kids. As they begin to eat, he also cuts up slices of apples that he knows he’ll have to force feed them later. Then he sets to work brewing coffee before sorting out the twins’ lunches. He or Lisa always prepare their lunch the night previous, so all he has to do is warm it and box it as appropriate.

One cup of coffee later, lunch is done, and Ianto finally begins on actual breakfast. Toast, a few strips of bacon, and some additional fruit. He manages to wolf down his own toast, saving the bacon for later, before he has - as predicted - to bargain with Eira and Elinor for them to eat their apples.

When Lisa finally emerges in the kitchen, showered and dressed in the sleek pantsuit that is the uniform for her job as a City Hall bureaucrat, Ianto is arguing with Elinor about eating an apple slice. Lisa pecks both their daughters on the head but avoids kissing Ianto; he has yet to brush his teeth.

Then they switch. Ianto takes the world’s quickest shower and dresses in the pinstriped suit and red shirt and grey tie he picked out last night. He checks his work briefcase, ensuring everything’s packed, before returning to the kitchen. Now he pulls Lisa in for a long kiss, ignoring their children’s curious eyes, and indulges in his bacon and a second slice of toast before he packs the lunch Lisa prepped him. Lucky for him, she also cleaned the coffee machine.

“Have a good day at work,” he tells her as she slips out the door, not before another kiss and a hug each from Eira and Elinor. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she calls back.

Ianto bundles his daughters into his Audi and drives them to their preschool. He parks and leads them inside. Immediately, they rush off to play with their friends while an amused Ianto hands their backpacks to the smiling preschool owner Megan.

“Busy day, Mr. Jones?” she jokes after he fills her in on how he found Eira and Elinor awake early today.

He beams, waving goodbye to his daughters. “No busier than the usual.”

Finally, Ianto arrives at the National Museum, where he works as a curator, and sets the coffee machine in the breakroom to brew, much to his colleagues’ pleasure, and takes his well-deserved cup of coffee to his office before he settles in for the day. There will be a few artifacts arriving this afternoon that he will be required to inspect, as well as the dismantling for an exhibit to oversee, but for now, all he must do is check the maintenance files for their current exhibits.

He takes great joy in reorganizing his file cabinets again, ordering them from specific exhibits to specific artifacts and then alphabetically. (One can never be _too_ organized is Ianto’s life philosophy.) Then he takes a brief break with another cup of coffee.

A few hours later, his assistant Al brings him a new stack of files to sign off on for the new artifacts. Apparently, they’ve arrived early, but he still decides to inspect them later.

“What’s your plan for lunch, Ianto?” Al asks. “A few of us were thinking of going out to that new Thai place.”

Ianto shakes his head. “Maybe tomorrow. Lisa already made me lunch today. I’ll eat out on the plaza with Aditi.”

Another hour later, it’s time for lunch. Feeling very middle-aged, Ianto takes his brown paper bag lunch and unwraps the basic sandwich Lisa made him. A few minutes later, Aditi, a short pretty Indian woman and a fellow curator, joins him on the same bench. They watch the tourists stroll about, hand-in-hand, and birds land and take off from the pavement.

“Sandwich?” she asks with a critical eye. “You should have gone to lunch with Al and the others.” She herself is balancing a Tupperware full of rice and orange curry that she’s busy mixing with a spoon.

“Hey,” Ianto says, smiling, “it’s the thought that counts.” He bites into his sandwich and is surprised to taste mustard; he thought they ran out of the condiment yesterday but apparently not. Within ten minutes, half his sandwich is gone, and he and Aditi make idle conversation. She offers gossip about their coworkers, and Ianto’s not too haughty to pretend he’s not _not_ listening.

In return, he relays how he found the twins playing fingerpainting on the wall once when they were younger, and Aditi tosses her head back and laughs.

“They’re quite precocious, I see,” she jokes. “They got the best bits of you and Lisa.”

He nods. “Speaking of which. Lisa wants to have you and Helen over for dinner some time this week.”

Aditi hums, setting down her spoon into her Tupperware and cracking the lid back on. “I’ll ask Helen, but I think she’s free. It’s a bit of a slow week over at the florist’s.”

They joke a bit more but are mostly done with lunch, so eventually, they tidy up the area around the bench and take their rubbish to the bin before returning to work. Ianto grabs a few files from his office and treks across the museum to where the new shipments come in. All artifacts are present and accounted for and are in good condition. Smiling, he thanks the delivery worker who nods and finally departs. 

One large duty of his day done, Ianto moves to the old exhibit and checks in with Al, who has been supervising everything. After checking that the dismantlement is all in order, Ianto leaves them to work. He spends the rest of his day reading old files and answering emails. Finally, around five pm, he packs his briefcase back up and locks his office door.

The flat is full of life and noise when he returns. Lisa already picked Eira and Elinor up from preschool on her way home, and she’s busy cooking dinner while they both play with the large Legos - Ianto refused to buy the small ones after he stepped on them on too many times; plus, they’re also choking hazards - and babble at each other. Pop music streams from a radio in the corner of the kitchen, a light-hearted jazzy soundtrack to Ianto’s family and life.

Setting down his briefcase, he pulls Lisa back against him from where she’s stirring pasta sauce on the stove, and she twists her head for a quick kiss.

“Go wash up and set the table,” she says, lips quirking into a smile as she gestures for him to shoo.

Ianto navigates around their daughters as they both rush at his legs in tight hugs, pulling them into his arms one by one and pressing kisses to their foreheads. “Can you go put your toys away?” he asks them, receiving the protests he expected.

Eventually, the promise of dinner convinces Eira and Elinor that it’s better to listen to their dad. When they return to the kitchen, tripping over each other and giggling, the table is set. Lisa serves them dinner, and each parent takes a toddler to messily feed. Ianto sighs when pasta ends up on the floor again instead of Eira’s mouth.

He glares at the floor with enough ferocity that Lisa giggles. “I’ll bathe them if you clean,” she offers, knowing how much he likes tidiness in their flat and how much he loves being the cause of that tidiness. 

Ianto switches the radio station to the news and sets to work, clearing the table, washing dishes, and mopping the floor. He dries his hands and finally rolls back down his sleeves before heading towards the twins’ bedroom where he finds that Lisa is just finishing up her bedtime story in a hushed whisper. Both girls are already asleep.

“They look like perfect angels when they’re sleeping,” she tells him, eyes twinkling.

“But are absolute hellions when awake,” Ianto jokes. “They got that from you, strong, stubborn woman that you are.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and then to each of their daughter’s heads. “Let’s go?”

They tiptoe into the hallway and pull the door shut softly behind them. Once nearer to the kitchen, they glance at each other.

“Wine?” Lisa asks.

  
“Wine,” Ianto agrees.

She fetches and uncorks the bottle while he turns on the telly, and they sit on the couch, pressed to each other’s side, the picture of modern domesticity, as they drink their wine and watch game show participants guess wrong trivia.

“The correct answer was clearly Hans Zimmer,” Ianto tells the telly, scowling and already slightly tipsy, when a redheaded man gets his fifth question in a row wrong. There’s a faint snort by his side, and he glances over to see Lisa laughing at him. “ _What?_ ”

“If you care so much about these shows,” she tells him breathlessly, “why don’t you become a participant on one yourself?”

He smacks her with a pillow.

Wine finished, Lisa returns their glasses and the bottle to the kitchen, quickly washing everything before setting it back into its place. Lunch for tomorrow is tonight’s leftovers, so they don’t have to cook anything. Instead, they head to bed. 

“I love you,” Ianto tells Lisa once they’ve slid under the covers, fully clothed in pajamas for once.

She grins sleepily at him. “I love you too, Jones, but I’m too tired for a shag.” This startles a laugh out of him.

“Fair,” he says but pulls her closer anyways. She nestles contentedly into his arms, humming, and Ianto presses his nose into the nape of her neck.

Lisa and Ianto fall asleep that way, in each other’s arms, and Ianto Jones believes that he’s never been happier.

* * *

**6001**

**Elysia**

**Jack**

The shadowy atmosphere of the planet Elysia parts way as Jack’s spaceship dips downwards, and it takes his breath away - not in a good way.

In the dark sparkling canvas of the galaxy, Elysia is a red smear, an ugly scar. The planet isn’t unremarkable or plain, mind you; it’s plenty beautiful, with its silver, almost ghostly lakes and red earth and black trees. But every scan of the planet will indicate a single fact - the planet is absolutely void of life. No people, no aliens, no critters. Only plants.

Stepping from his ship, settled comfortably on a patch of red earth, Jack knows otherwise. This planet is where Ianto is. Somewhere. Anywhere. His hand flits to his vortex manipulator, gripping it with the same reassurance he has over the last year.

Several days after Ianto’s departure, Jack had been restlessly tossing and turning over in their cold, empty bed when his vortex manipulator had begun a sharp, steady beeping; it had intercepted an incoming message from another vortex manipulator, one closely linked to Jack’s.

_Come find me, Jack. Come find me like I found you,_ Jack remembers, and he shivers at the raspy desperation in his husband’s voice, the entire recording inaudible and distorted in places. Having listened and relistened to Ianto’s distress message over the last year, he could recite it all, line-by-line. 

After today, he hopes he never has to play it again.

Jack steps further forth onto the planet and begins his search. He treks past mirrored lakes and through dark forests, vortex manipulator set to scan for any sign of the unusual, yet it never even makes a chirp. Hours pass by. Jack rests under the shade of a tree with leaves darker than night and drinks water from one of his canteens. When it has been time enough, he pops up back and resumes his search at an even more furious pace. Eventually, night begins to fall - not that there’s much of a difference of light on this shadowy planet.

He’s passing through another endless stretch of forest when he nearly trips over a bit of raised ground. Steadying himself against a rough tree, he glances down, expecting to find an exposed tree root.

His heart rises into his throat when he finds a ragged piece of silver metal. 

He lifts it into his hand, running a thumb over the smooth surface, noting where the edges remain unusually warped and singed, as if from a great collison. Or a crash landing. Painted along one side is the slight curlique of a _T,_ the beginning of _The Myfanwy._ Jack swallows the lump in his throat, his worst fears seemingly confirmed.

Tucking the shard of Ianto’s ship into the pocket of his coat - not his greatcoat but a coat in a similar style and cut that Ianto had gifted him on their first wedding anniversary, Jack stumbles forward, heart racing as he attempts his hardest not to break into a run. He’s afraid of what he’ll find when he breaks free of the forest.

There is no light before him, only more shadows. Jack’s been stumbling along in the dark for a while, but his eyes have luckily since adjusted. There is no light, yet, when Jack steps past the last tree, there is a sudden shift around him. There is no more of the forest he’d been wandering through; he has popped into an endless field of long grass where ghostly mist drifts in every direction.

Jack roams across the field, searching for Ianto and calling out his name, but there is no sign of his husband anywhere. The longer he searches, the more fierce the chill of the field becomes, the denser the mist. His skin erupts into constant goosebumps, his coat providing no cover, and he shivers, spine tingling, but continues his wandering, rubbing his arms.

“Ianto?” he cries out into the silence, only for his voice to come back echoing. “ _Ianto?_ ”

Then he turns around and nearly trips over a body lying on the ground.

It’s Ianto, body frozen in death, skin completely pale, pale just as it had been when he’d been shrouded in red after Thames House, when Jack had woken beside him. 

He can feel the beginning of the usual sharp panic burgeoning at the sight of Ianto dead. He shoves it away, wills up a calm he definitely doesn’t feel. Sniffles and wipes the prickling tears away. Drops down beside his husband and cradles his lifeless body against his chest, stroking Ianto’s hair.

“C’mon, Ianto,” he whispers against Ianto’s cold skin. “I’m here now. It’s time to wake up.”

There’s not a single wound, scar, or blemish on Ianto’s body. His clothes, the same coat and style of shirt and trousers Ianto prefers, are perfectly in order.

“Wake up, Ianto,” Jack demands, his voice becoming harder, more expectant. He’s using the voice of Captain Harkness now. He slaps lightly at Ianto’s face. “It’s time to go home. C’mon. Wake up.” 

“He won’t wake up,” says a sudden voice that sounds both human and not, with just a slight timbre of otherworldliness, and Jack startles. “He is trapped elsewhere. He cannot wake up.”

Cradling Ianto’s body as he is, he cannot draw his Webley or sonic blasters, so he settles for glaring balefully at this mysteriously robed stranger who appears to have come straight from the mist.

_They came from out of the rain,_ Jack remembers. He cannot suppress his shiver.

“What have you done?” he snarls at the figure, tugging Ianto closer. “What have you done to my husband? Why isn’t he waking up?”

“I have done nothing,” the figure responds. “I am Charon, guardian of this planet, but I only ever observe. I have done nothing. It was this planet.” They turn to survey this endless misty field. “It traps souls here. It has taken your husband as well.”

Carefully placing Ianto back onto the ground, Jack stalks up to Charon, smiling wolfishly. “Take me to him. Take me to him or I swear you will regret having taken him at all. I’m Captain Jack Harkness. I’ve destroyed _worlds_ and _entire species_ for ones I despised. Don’t assume I would do any less for the one I love.”

Charon chuckles, and the long grasses of the field seemingly sway as they do so. “Rest assured, Captain Harkness, I do wish to help,” they reply. “I can take you to Ianto Jones, but for a price.”

Of course.

He bites back a snarl. “Name your price,” he demands. 

Charon doesn’t so much as smile or even move. “I will take you where your husband is,” they say. “You must battle yourself to find him, battle your own demons. When you do find him, you will have to convince him to come back with you.” Now they do smile, and oh, Jack wishes they hadn’t. The effect is indescribable, the chill of the field only further increasing. Jack shivers where he stands. “Should you fail or should you look back at Ianto while bringing him back to the surface, Ianto will remain trapped forever. You will return alone.”

“ _What the utter_ -” Jack begins.

They chuckle again. “Those are the rules. Not my rules but still the rules.” A beat. “Do you accept these rules? Do you accept this price, Captain?”

“I do,” says Jack, shoulders slumped. He sighs. “How do I enter?”

“Through the lake,” Charon says, and turns to gesture behind them. 

There, where there had previously been more endless field, a mirrored lake has now blinked into existence. The edges of the lake, the ground around it, is oddly warped and caved in, almost like a crater that has been flooded with water, a crater created by a large collison. Jack presses his lips together and settles his shoulders, turning back to Charon, but Charon has disappeared. 

“Of course,” Jack sighs. “Of course.”

He steps forward towards the lake, poking the water with his boot and watching it ripple outwards. So reflective is this lake that Jack can see every backwards detail of himself clearly. 

Slowly, he wades into the lake. First, the water is at his knees. Then he moves further, and the water reaches his waist. He continues forward, reaching the center of the lake, until he’s forced to lift his head high, the water creeping at his jaw. He treads lightly, using those Boeshane-born reflexes to keep himself afloat. Around him, the lake water is bone-chillingly cold, seeping into his body and dragging at his clothes.

He doesn’t bother fighting; he accepts it. With one last deep breath, Jack Harkness allows the lake to pull him under, and lungs filling with water, he drowns. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's been exactly a month, so whooooo! It wasn't the intention to wait exactly a month, but here it issssssss! Hope you enjoy this one; it's longer than the last part. The final part will be coming next month...sometime...we shall see!

Faintly golden sunlight drifts through the neat bedroom, casting a bright glare against the eyelids of the occupants of the cozy bed. Stirring beneath the soft sheets, Ianto quietly moans and cuddles against the side of the warm body next to him. They lay together in contented peace for uncountable minutes until the silence is shattered by the shrieking of an alarm. Both groan.

The other occupant of the bed silences the alarm clock with a slam of their hand, cursing.

“Time to get up?” Ianto asks blearily. His brain feels like sluggish cotton, and he’s far too warm to even dare venture a toe from the safety and warmth of the sheets. 

“Yeah. Time to get the kiddos up for preschool,” the occupant replies, their voice higher pitched than expected, but Ianto rolls over to Lisa peering back at him, her clever, dark eyes barely focused but still mischievous. 

He pouts at her. “It’s your turn. I got them ready yesterday.”

Laughing, Lisa winds her arms around his neck, pushing herself against him and making them both keenly aware of their nudity. Ianto’s cock takes a sudden interest. “No,” she tells him with a smirk, “we decided yesterday that this entire week it was your turn.”

“Could I convince you otherwise?” he asks, and together, they roll, snogging, until she is sprawled out on top of him.

Lisa grimaces away. “No kissing until you brush your teeth,” she chastises, her expression shifting to one of outrage. 

He sighs. “Well, then,” he says, flipping them over and snaking a hand between her legs to worm his fingers against her warm folds, “there’s no kissing involved here.” 

Inhaling sharply, he pushes inside of her, where she’s wet and  _ soaking,  _ and her legs wrap tightly around his back. She gasps and keens and makes  _ all sorts  _ of delicious noises as he fucks her. They engage in the familiar push-and-pull, give-and-take of them having sex until he finally spills inside her, moaning her name. 

Then happily, Ianto buries his head between her legs, mouthing and lapping at her folds. Not much later, her legs tighten almost painfully around his head, she presses herself against his face, her hips bucking slightly, and she comes with a slight whine, wriggling away when he continues and she’s become too oversensitized.

They fall back against the sheets, panting.

“Okay, we did have time for that, but now you have to go wake up our children unless you want  _ them  _ to come find us,” she tells him, playfully waggling her eyebrows. When he dawdles, she smacks his bare arse, and he hisses. “Go, you lazy bastard.”

“Okay, okay,” Ianto agrees, and he sits up to search for where his clothes ended up last night. His sweats are puddled on the floor besides Lisa’s panties. Her bra is flung over a lamp - they’d gotten a bit  _ too  _ enthusiastic last night, it seems. He finally finds his sleep shirt half-crumpled beneath the bed and pulls it on.

As he steps towards the doorway, a peculiar sensation slips over him, an almost electric current running up his spine, very different from the lust and the build-up of his orgasm that he was feeling only moments previous. Every strand of hair on his body stands on end, and he shivers.

Something is  _ off.  _ Something feels  _ wrong. _

He turns back to Lisa, where she’s luxuriating in the bed and watching him with curious eyes. “Haven’t we done this before?” he asks. “It feels familiar. Like… yesterday?” 

Her eyebrows rise, nearly to her hairline, and Ianto’s heart skips a beat as she takes a long moment to reply. Then, she says, “Of course we’d done this before, Ianto.” He nearly bites down on his tongue, waiting for him to continue. “We’re parents! Every day’s practically the same when you have kids.”

That’s not what he… 

Ianto sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and just like that, the feeling passes. It was just an odd bit of ridiculousness after all. He and Lisa and their kids have the same daily schedule; of course every day’s going to feel the same. It’s just the monotony getting to him.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he tells her. “I’m just being a tad dramatic likely.”

“Or you had too much to drink last night,” she teases him, lips tugging into a grin.

“Not as much as you,” he shoots back. “You practically finished the bottle.”

Shrugging, her grin widens, and she reaches up to rub at a spot along her jaw, back arching as she stretches her legs out. His fingers long to touch her, his arms to hold her. It feels as if he hasn’t held her in ages, when she was just in his arms moments previous.

_ Christ.  _ They may not be newlyweds anymore, but he still feels more like one with every passing day.

“I’ll get Eira and Elinor,” Ianto says. “You go stumble to the bathroom and do what it takes to face the day.” He turns the doorknob. 

“You make it sound so dire, Mr. Jones,” she calls after him as he steps into the hallway, and he chuckles, stumbling towards their daughters’ shared bedroom.

Both Eira and Elinor are already awake and seated on their bedroom floor, playing with dolls. Taken aback, Ianto blinks, then briefly watches them manipulate plastic arms and legs to trot the dolls across the carpet.

“What are the two of you doing awake?” He kneels down beside the twins.

Eira, brushing back the hair of her doll, replies, “Playing with our dolls, Dad,” with the long-suffering air of someone stating the obvious. Ianto holds back a laugh and reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, brushing gentle fingers against her delicate skin. 

Some mornings, some days, he just stares and marvels at Eira and Elinor, at how they are  _ his,  _ his and Lisa’s. How he’s now helping raise and shape two independent lives. 

Oh, how he adores his daughters. How he adores his wife.

“That was a good plan, but now it’s time for both of you to put your dolls away and get ready for preschool,” he tells them, dragging their toy chest closer. While the girls sort out their dolls and their accessories, he stands and makes their beds, folding the small blankets and straightening the creases. 

“Dad,” says Eira, staring at him expectantly from next to the dresser. Chuckling, Ianto pulls several jumper options from a drawer and allows her to choose a green one. When he attempts the same for his other daughter, she glares at him.

“No, Dad,” Elinor tells him. Ultimately, she chooses a red-striped jumper. Ianto believes he has a similar tie, purchased by Lisa as a recent birthday or anniversary present.

Ianto ensures that the girls’ backpacks contain their notebooks and pencil boxes, although he does add in the folders full of their homework. They don’t really use any of the school supplies - they are after all only in preschool - but Megan, the preschool owner, wants to ensure that they get a feel of what it might be like to attend school. 

He shepherds Eira and Elinor, the girls adorably holding hands, to the kitchen while he carries both backpacks. He sits them down in chairs and pours them small glasses of orange juice and bowls of decently healthy cereal. Then he begins to slice up apples before brewing coffee. He’ll need the caffeine before he prepares to sort out their lunches.

The toaster clicks, and up spring several pieces of toast. Ianto already has bacon sizzling on the stove, so he cuts up some additional pears and peaches. His own breakfast is eaten hastily, and then it’s time to coax Eira and Elinor into eating the apple slices.

“You’ve done some good work,” Lisa remarks when she finally strides in the kitchen, freshly showered. She’s dressed in a smart grey pinstriped pantsuit, her eye makeup done but not her lipstick. There is a light jacket draped over her arm. “I see that our sweethearts have eaten.” Their daughters beam up at her as she presses affectionate kisses to their foreheads.

“Glad to have gained your approval,” Ianto snarks, drying his hands on a dish towel.

A quick shower and a pinstriped suit of his own readies him for the day. He finishes his breakfast, kisses Lisa goodbye, and drops Eira and Elinor off at preschool, smiling at Megan.

“Hello, Mr. Jones,” the security guard says as Ianto arrives at the National Museum with several minutes to spare. Ianto nods politely in return and heads to his office.

Ianto indulges in his second cup of coffee before reorganzing his file cabinets again. Then he drinks a third cup. (One can never have too much coffee, he believes.) His assistant Al brings him a new stack of files to sign, but Ianto waves off their invitation to lunch. 

As Ianto goes through the motions of the day, lunch creeps up on him. He takes the brown paper bag containing the sandwich Lisa made him and sits at a bench in the plaza outside the museum, eventually joined by Aditi, his fellow curator. 

“Sandwich?” she asks, gripping a Tupperware full of rice and curry. “You should have gone to lunch with Al and the others.”

“Hey, it’s the thought that counts,” Ianto shoots back playfully. Lisa manages to sneak some mustard into between the layers of meat and cheese. He takes another bite of his sandwich, conversing with Aditi. She fills him in on the newest museum gossip, and he relays a story to her about when the twins were younger. 

Mid-laugh, Ianto glances off into the distance, towards the other end of the plaza, and near startles. There, standing in between the chattering tourists and the running children, is a distant figure, dark-haired and blue-coated. It’s distinctively a man, a man who is intently watching Ianto and Aditi.

Ianto’s eyes narrow, but a child runs before him, obscuring his vision. A moment later, when Iano refocuses on the other side of the plaza, the figure is gone.

He shivers, feeling the same sense of  _ wrong  _ from this morning.

“You alright, Ianto?” Aditi asks, forehead wrinkling with concern, and Ianto snaps his attention back to her.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he replies quickly, too quickly. When she blinks at him, bewildered, he diverts the conversation, telling her, “By the way, Lisa wants to have you and Helen over for dinner some time this week.”

Aditi looks contemplative. “I’ll ask Helen, but I think she’s free. It’s a bit of a slow week over at the florist’s.”

Returning to the museum, Ianto fetches some files from his office and ensures that the artifacts from the new shipments are all present and accounted for. Then he quickly checks in with Al, who has been overseeing the dismantlement of the old exhibit. He spends the rest of his day reading old files and answering emails before leaving at five pm. 

Per routine, Lisa has already picked up Eira and Elinor from preschool on her way home and is preoccupied with cooking dinner. The twins clatter Legos in the background, pop music babbling from the radio, tuned into a channel that Lisa recently discovered. 

He pulls Lisa in for a quick kiss, and she rubs his chin fondly.

“Go wash up and set the table,” she orders him. As he steps away, he’s suddenly bombarded by two stumbling toddlers, one still clutching a colorful Lego in her fist. He coaxes Eira and Elinor into putting their toys away, just in time for dinner. Each parent takes a twin to messily feed, and Ianto’s sighs become a constant soundtrack to dinner, just like Eira and Elinor’s babbling.

Once the twins are put to bed, the wine comes out, and Ianto and Lisa settle down against their couch. Lisa pours them both healthy enough glasses as he turns on the telly and tunes it to a quiz game show. 

“The correct answer was clearly Hans Zimmer,” he says to the redheaded participant who gets his fifth question in a row wrong. “ _ What? _ ”

“If you care so much about these shows,” Lisa teases him, “why don’t you become a participant on one yourself?” She only receives a pillow to the face for all their troubles, but her giggling persists, despite Ianto’s playful, wine-induced scowl.

They slide into bed, fully clothed but wrapped in each other’s arms. “I love you,” Ianto tells Lisa and receives a snarky, sleepy response. Lisa’s eyes flicker shut moments later, and he presses his nose into the nape of her neck.

Christ, he loves this woman.

Lisa and Ianto fall asleep that way, in each other’s arms, and Ianto Jones believes that he’s never been happier.

* * *

Jack startles back to life, gasping sharply, his limbs flailing. He expects to find himself still submerged in water, but instead, he’s attacking air. He heavies a sudden sigh of relief, taking a moment to ground himself in his body. 

He  _ despises  _ drowning; it’s one of the worst ways to die, in his opinion. It reminds him too much of being buried beneath Cardiff for a thousand years, dirt clogging his throat with every gasping breath he takes, until he chokes himself to death over and over and over again. Right after that is the only  _ slightly _ better memory of being chained down and already struggling because of memories of  _ pain and blades  _ as cement floods in and weighs him down.

But at the end of both of those memories, of those tortures that several millenia have been unable to wipe away, was Ianto. Ianto to rescue him, Ianto to care for him. Ianto, waiting with wide, protective arms and a gentle, understanding smile. (And now, the tables have turned. It’s up to him to find his Ianto Jones.)

His throat is clogged with sudden emotion again, and Jack blinks away tears, still lying flat on his back on an unknown surface. The texture beneath his fingertips feels grainy and sandy. He needs to stand, he needs to find Ianto, so he stumbles to his feet, raising his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the bright glare of the sun. A familiar sun. He’s on a familiar beach. 

It stretches as far as the naked eye can see, all soft, clean sand and the blue waves lapping at the edge of the beach, a cluster of tan buildings forming abstract shapes in the distance. In the not-so-far-off distance, there are two figures, one tall and lean, the other short. A man and a boy. The man carries a long bat draped over his shoulder, and Jack just knows that the boy will be tossing a red leather ball with worn stitching up and down in his hand, the movement almost hypnotic.

Somehow, Jack Harkness is back on the Boeshane Penninsula. Not the Boeshane of  _ now, _ the one where he lives with Ianto, the one where they were wed close to this very beach. This is the Boeshane of Jack’s childhood, where he was once Javic Thane, a wide-eyed mischievous son and older brother, where he once played cricket on this beach with his father and Gray.

Jack takes off in a sprint, racing towards the two figures. His greatcoat flaps outwards behind him, and its presence on his body is almost completely at odds with this memory Jack has pictured so often once it slipped back into his mind, fitting back in like a puzzle piece, no longer at the mercy of a psychic black hole of a predator. His greatcoat feels like an intrusion;  _ he  _ feels like an intrusion.

The sound of laughter and cheering drifts up to Jack as the distance between him and his family shortens. He can see them now, can see the smile spreading across Gray’s face as he swings the bat, only just barely clipping the ball, and it fumbles through the air. He chases after it, Jack’s father calling out encouragement. Franklin himself is also broad-shouldered and squared-jawed, although his own jaw is scruffy and his dark hair lies flat in a manner that Jack’s never could.

Javic was here, that day, when they played cricket on this beach. He was the one who chased after the ball. But now, Jack is chasing after them.

Before he reaches them, only several meters away now, close enough to yell, the sky darkens, storm clouds that were not there before now suddenly hovering on the horizon. Jack nearly stumbles, but he keeps going. The day has changed; it’s a memory of a different day. A horrific day.

The day Jack lost  _ everything.  _ Gray, his father, his mother, all in one fell swoop.

Franklin glances up, noticing Jack as he grinds to a halt beside his father, but it’s clear from the stern purse of his lips and his frightened eyes, the same expression he wore as he ran back home for their mother, ran back towards death, that he only sees Jack as young Javic. “Run,” he tells Jack, wrapping an urgent hand around his wrist. “Take Gray. Keep him safe.”

“No, no, no.” Jack is shaking his head in denial, as if he refuses hard enough, he can keep the rest of the day, the starting point of the tragedy of his life, from transpiring. He plants his feet solidly in the ground and holds himself still in his father’s grip. “This  _ can’t  _ be happening. This  _ already  _ happened.”

“Look after Gray, Javic,” Franklin insists, his older hand slowly reaching behind him to tug Gray closer. Gray watches them with wide, terrified eyes. “Protect him, please.”

“This already happened,” Jack repeats, and it feels as if his mind is split in two places at once - trapped both here and on the day of the attack. Numbly, a small part of his mind remembers Ianto but is unable to do anything but watch the rest of everything go to shit. He can feel sudden burning and dampness at the corners of his eyes, tears too stubborn to fall. “I already lost Gray.”

Franklin’s expression softens. His grip slackens on Jack’s wrist, but he still pulls the other man towards him until his hand rests on Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s tears threaten to spill over, and he inhales sharply, afraid that if he even twitches under his father’s touch that his father will dematerialize, will spin into sand and be blown away. “You were a boy,” he says to Jack, voice gentler than a Boeshane moonflower swaying in a sea breeze. “You were a boy, my dear Javic. You had no control over any of this.”

“I lost Gray,” chokes out Jack, head ducked, eyes on the sand beneath his dirty boots. “You asked me to do one thing, to look after Gray, as I should have as his big brother, and I couldn’t even do that.”

“You were barely older than Gray yourself,” replies Franklin, his entire body shuddering. It’s almost as if he’s swaying in and out of sync with Jack’s memory. “I shouldn’t have put this on you. I made a mistake. I should have stayed with you. I should have taken you with me. Anything but abandoning both of you, my boys.”

“Dad, no,” Jack cries, a splinter of alarm wedging itself into his heart. “What about Mom? She would have needed you. You went back for her!”

His father is shaking his head, eyes damp with tears like Jack’s own, smiling sadly. “We will never be able to know, Javic. We will never know. You remain the last of the Thanes, the only one of us to live on, and you’ve shaped and reshaped the memories of the last day of our family over and over again in your head. Even you, the immortal, cannot know what holds a fragment of truth and what was purely your sentiment or hopes.”

“Dad,” tries Jack, his eyes flitting to Gray, a silent phantom by their father’s side, but as he gazes at Gray, something horrific happens. Gray begins to sink into the sand, pulled slowly under by an unknown gravitational force. Jack cries out but to no avail. Franklin only glances calmly behind him, unreacting as his youngest son drowns in the sand of the Boeshane beach, his own tears beginning to fall. Which is when Jack glances down. And realizes his father is being pulled down as well, faster than Gray, slipping through Jack’s fingers like time itself.

Jack dives forward, tugging at Franklin and Gray’s hands to wrench them free of the sand, but they only sink down faster. The sand is up to Gray’s chin now, up to his father’s waist. Jack drops to his knees, yelling for his family to hold onto him, and he digs into the ground as quickly as he can, shoveling sand aside until his hands burn.

He’s sobbing desperately now, tears obscuring his vision. He has no control over any of this. He needs a rope, he needs a shovel… he needs something. He needs to save his family, change what he couldn’t do on that very day. 

“Dad, Gray,” he weeps, his throat aching from his cries. “No, come back. Just… I can save you.  _ Please. _ ”

“It wasn’t your fault, Javic,” comes his father’s voice one final time, muffled up through the sand. Gray is completely gone now. All that remains is the slight fingertips of his father reaching upwards, for Javic, but a moment later, those are gone too.

A scream tears itself from his throat, a horrific, inhuman sound of loss and grief that Jack barely recognizes as coming from himself. But he keeps digging. If he keeps digging, he can reach them. Gray and his father are not out of his reach yet.

He doesn’t realize when he begins to sink through the sand himself, just glances down and finds that he’s up to his knees in the sand and can no longer feel his legs. His struggling is futile and only pulls him down faster and faster.

It’s too much like the soil pouring in on him. The soil, the cement. He can’t feel his legs. He’s being immobilized, paralyzed.

Jack’s still screaming when his head disappears under the sand, his last thought of his husband holding him, cradling him protectively when he’ll gasp back to life, just like Ianto has so many times before.

* * *

Faintly golden sunlight drifts through the neat bedroom, casting a bright glare against the eyelids of the occupants of the cozy bed. Ianto cuddles against the warm body beside him, but soon, their contented peace is interrupted by the shrieking of an alarm. 

The other occupant of the bed slams their hand on the alarm, cursing. A teasing remark from him leads to an unfamiliar, unexpected voice replying, and Ianto rolls around to face them.

He blames it on being quite bleary from sleep, but when he finds a gorgeous dark-eyed woman staring back at him, her lips tugged into a mischievous smirk that his traitorous heart insists is familiar, his eyes narrow, his brow furrowing.

This woman, however she is, she shouldn’t be here… in this bed, by Ianto’s side. But he can’t place who should be here instead, or where the woman should be, the logic of his bewilderment darting away from him, a slippery fish in the waters of his memory. 

It takes a moment for everything to come flooding back. Here is Lisa Hallett, in his bed, as she should be. Lisa, his beloved wife and the mother of their adored daughters. The same daughters Ianto should really be readying for school at this very minute.

“It’s your turn,” Ianto tells Lisa, pouting at her. “I got them ready yesterday.”

Their banter quickly turns into a hand sliding between Lisa’s legs, and she is warm and slick when Ianto pushes into her. They come with each other’s names on their lips.

With a quick kiss pressed to Lisa’s mouth, Ianto slides from bed. As he steps towards the doorway, he feels a peculiar sensation pass over him, an almost electric current running up his spine, very different from the lust and the build up of his orgasm that he was feeling only moments previous. Every strand of hair on his body stands on end, and he shivers.

Something is  _ off.  _ Something feels  _ wrong. _

He turns back to Lisa, where she’s luxirating in the bed and watching him with curious eyes. “Haven’t we done this before?” he asks. “It feels familiar. Like… yesterday?” 

Her eyebrows rise, nearly to her hairline, and Ianto’s heart skips a beat as she takes a long moment to reply. Then, she says, “Of course we’d done this before, Ianto.” He nearly bites down on his tongue, waiting for him to continue. “We’re parents! Every day’s practically the same when you have kids.”

Briefly comforted by Lisa’s words, he wanders towards the twins’ bedroom. He distracts Eira and Elinor from their dolls and dresses them in jumpers and jeans, becoming amused when Elinor insists on a different color than her sister.

She’s really working hard on maintaining her individuality, and Ianto makes note to tell Lisa that they should tell friends and relatives to stop buying the twins so many matching sets of clothes for birthdays and holidays.

He herds Eira and Elinor to the kitchen and sits them down with breakfast - glasses of orange juice and cereal - before he slices apples. He can feel a groggy part of his brain perk up when the scent of brewing coffee permeates the kitchen, but he only fully comes online once he’s had his first cup. 

Toast goes into the toaster. Bacon sizzles on the stove. Ianto readies some more fruit. Then he wolves down his breakfast before bantering with his daughters over their refusal to eat their apples.

Lisa gives him her approval along with a sweet kiss when she emerges into the kitchen, fully dressed, freeing him to go shower as well.

Fully-suited, he kisses Lisa goodbye and hurries Eira and Elinor out the door, waving them their own goodbyes at preschool. 

Downing a second cup of coffee brewed in the breakroom, Ianto begins his day with reorganizing his file cabinets and checking up on files for the new exhibit arriving today. He politely refuses a lunch invitation from his assistant Al. 

Despite hours having passed, those strange feelings from the morning, the feelings of  _ wrongness,  _ still haven’t abated. Ianto sighs and drinks a third cup of coffee, which does nothing further to help his fraying nerves. He settles for ignoring them, delving deeper into his work.

“Sandwich?” his fellow curator Aditi teases him when he sits beside her on the bench in the museum plaza and pulls out his brown paper bag lunch. “You should have gone to lunch with Al and the others.” 

Rolling his eyes, he smiles and replies, “Hey, it’s the thought that counts.” A moment later, he’s swept into conversation with her, briefly surprised by the mustard in his sandwich. His gaze drifts across the plaza, and then he startles.

Not too far across the plaza, obscured by wandering tourists and speedy children playing tag, is a broad-shouldered figure of a man, a phantom in a blue-grey greatcoat that whips out in unfelt wind. He’s far but also close enough for Ianto to vaguely make out that he’s handsome - a square jaw, dark hair, sea-colored eyes that are watching Ianto and Aditi intently.

Ianto blinks, certain that the man wasn’t there minutes previously, but this phantom in a greatcoat doesn’t flicker or shift or dissolve into the wind. Ianto’s not even sure why he’d expect that.

He also doesn’t know what has him turning to Aditi and blurting out, “Do you see that man?”

Her brow knits together in bewilderment. “What man?”

Discreetly, he does his best to point without glancing in the general direction of the phantom. “That man.”

“ _ What man? _ ” Aditi repeats, her voice a bit more insistent. “There is no man there, Ianto. There’s just some kids playing games.”

Frustration bleeds into Ianto, and he bites back a snippy remark. But then, he turns and finds that Aditi is correct. There is no man. Just kids chasing around where the phantom had previously been should.   
  
When he turns back to her, she’s watching him in concern. “You alright, Ianto?”

He nods. “Just my mind playing tricks on me.” He forces out a false laugh. “Must not have slept off last night’s hangover like I thought.” Conversation is quickly pivoted to Lisa inviting Aditi and her girlfriend Helen over for dinner sometime this week.

The phantom weighs on his mind as he and Aditi toss the rubbish from their lunch away, as he checks in with Al about the dismantlement of the museum’s old exhibit, as he drives home, and even as he enters the flat, so full of life and noise. He pulls Lisa into his arms, kissing her gently and ignoring how the phantom’s blue eyes burned into him.

Why does this, Ianto’s happiness, Ianto’s life, suddenly feel like  _ betrayal? _

“Go wash up and set the table,” Lisa tells him, shooing him away with an adoring smile. Ianto rounds up Eira and Elinor from their toys and does, indeed, set the table before helping the twins wash their hands.

Dinner is eaten both messily and tossed on the floor, with Lisa and Ianto exchanging looks over the dining table. Lisa’s expression is more amused than Ianto, but he manages to restore order to the flat afterwards, cleaning the kitchen as Lisa bathes their daughters. He finds her in their bedroom, finishing up her bedtime story. Both girls are already asleep.

“They look like perfect angels when they’re sleeping,” she says.

“But are absolute hellions when awake,” jokes Ianto. “They got that from you, strong, stubborn woman that you are.” 

They settle onto the couch with wine, a random game show playing on the telly in the background. It only takes half a glass to loosen Ianto’s tongue enough for the words he’s been holding back all evening, the thoughts he’s been thinking all day, since he saw the phantom, to come slipping out.

“Sometimes, on days like today, I can’t recognize what my life has become,” admits Ianto, Lisa watching him astutely, her hands kneading through his scalp. “Everything feels weird and unbelievable. Like it never happened.” To his credit, his words slur only slightly.

She says nothing for a moment, only increases the pressure of her hands, and he hisses. She cards a gentle hand through his hair in apology. Finally: “That’s because it did.” A beat. “It did happen. This is your life now, Ianto.”

“Then why does it sometimes feel surreal?” he asks, voice quiet. “Unreal, even.”

“Because you’re happy,” she tells him gently, her eyes bright and glowing, cheeks flushed from the wine. “You’re so happy you can scarcely believe it.”

“I suppose,” he mutters, but before he can voice his next doubt, she tugs too harshly on his hair. He hisses again. “Watch it!”

“Sorry, sorry.” But she’s too engrossed in the game show, not entirely paying attention to him anymore.

He attempts to remedy that, brushing his fingers against the sensitive points on her legs. She shrieks in surprise, and he pulls her into his lap, snogging her thoroughly. Their wine glasses are set safely on the coffee table once they have a brief spark of rationality.

“Take me to bed, Mr. Jones,” Lisa murmurs huskily, biting her lip and peering up at him with heavily-lidded eyes.

Never have been able to resist Lisa Hallet, Ianto does. And when they fall back onto the bed, sweaty and panting, they coil into each other’s arms. Ianto presses his nose to the nape of Lisa’s neck and falls asleep, cradling his heart in his arms, overwhelmed with how much he loves his wife.

* * *

He’d sliding, slipping forward, his legs fumbling for purchase against slick synthetic flooring, and then he collapses to his knees, chest heaving, throat  _ aching _ from the screams. He might still be screaming, he might not; he doesn’t know. Everything went a little bit hazy, dark, and  _ horrific  _ there drowning in the sand.

Jack pants, eyes fixed on his familiar brown boots but not focusing. There is not a single grain of sand on his boots, he will realize later. His mind is a bit preoccupied, trapped in memories of the past.

He’s murmuring quietly and nonsensically to himself. Nothing makes sense. Nothing since he first landed on this goddamn planet -  _ no, _ nothing since Ianto left their home on Boeshane in a quiet, cold rage - makes sense. 

“You alright there, mate?” asks a familiar Northern brogue, and if Jack’s blood could chill even further in its veins, it would.

Slowly, very slowly, he lifts his head up to gaze at the speaker and feels a faint flicker of surprise, but it barely even registers, as overwhelmed and burnt out and blurred as he is. 

It’s the Doctor before him. Not the most recent incarnation. No, it’s his first Doctor, the one with the eyes that glowed like blue flames but also burned as cold as they did bright, the hawkish nose that Rose teased him for, the close-shorn dark hair, the pronounced ears he always scoffed at, the dramatic leather coat and the jumper and the dark trousers.

Jack’s first Doctor.The one who will always hold a special place in his heart.

Bewildered, he gazes at the hand offered to him, overanalyzes the ruddy skin and the broadness of the palm and the odd boniness to the fingers, remembering how that hand felt clasped in his, both of them running until Jack’s lungs burned. He doesn’t take it, at least not yet. 

When everything makes a tad bit more sense to him, when he’s slightly more reoriented, he slides his hand into the Doctor’s and feels the unexpected strength hoist him to his feet. The Doctor is staring at him with an arched eyebrow so similar to Ianto’s. (And doesn’t the thought of his husband send Jack back into a dizzying spin of grief and purpose?) Jack stares back.

As quickly as the Doctor’s hand was offered to Jack, it’s tugged away.

“You’re always falling for people, aren’t you, Captain?” teases the Doctor, his eyes twinkling, and Jack, Jack’s poor heart, which fell for the intensity of the Doctor and the idealism of Rose, is  _ aching  _ and  _ confused _ . 

“Where are we?” Jack asks. He doesn’t ask,  _ How are you here? _ , no matter how much he wants to. He finally glances around his surroundings. And immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Concrete walls. Synthetic floors. Clinically bright fluorescent lights. Shadows everywhere.

All that’s missing is red lights and Daleks. 

He’s back on Satellite Five.

With a jolt of fear that clogs his throat and sets his heart racing and his hands shaking, Jack glances down. He is relieved to find himself still wearing his greatcoat, not synthetic leathers.

“Oh, you already know where we are,” the Doctor replies, his tone too fond for the implications of his words, of  _ this place. _ Then he begins quickly striding away, down the hallway, towards darkness. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Hurry up then, Jack, if you don’t want to be left behind. Like last time.”

Jack, who had begun to follow behind the Doctor like a lost little lamb, grinds to a halt, his fear and confusion flashing to sudden ferocity. He’s  _ angry, _ proper angry, all the guilt and loss and the sense of abandonment and rejection from several millenia ago flooding back. 

“No,” he says.

The Doctor stops and glances back, brow furrowed, lips pursed. He hides his shock well, Jack realizes. The Doctor always has, pulling on different emotions and facades like the colorful clothing they always costume themselves in. In this moment, he can see why they have been called the Oncoming Storm, the Last of the Time Lords. The Timeless Child. 

“No?” the Doctor repeats.

“You act like the blame lies with me,” begins Jack, his feet carrying him swiftly towards the Doctor. “You always did, to some extent, even after we reunited, even after you apologized. But  _ you  _ left  _ me _ behind. It was through no fault of my own.” He inhales sharply. “You were prejudiced, you were scared, and  _ you left me behind.  _ Knowing I had just come back to life, knowing that I was terrified, vulnerable, and knee-deep in Dalek dust.  _ You left me behind. _ ” He can feel the unshed tears burning in the corners of his eyes. “Meeting you made me a better person, changed my entire life, but you also ruined it.”

“You’re being melodramatic again, Captain,” the Doctor drawls, lips tugging into a slight smile, the sight of which causes Jack to grit his teeth. “It was Rose who brought you back, not me. Why do you not blame her?”

“Rose brought me back as an act of love,” Jack insists. “She was young, beautiful, with so much heart. She didn’t know what she was doing. She simply didn’t want us to die, didn’t want the Daleks to win. You yourself said that the power of the Time Vortex was too much for a human to handle. The energy you took from her  _ killed  _ you, yet in your dying moments, you somehow found  _ the strength  _ to turn Rose’s love into an act of hate.” 

“Is that what it was?” asks the Doctor, sounding more like his tenth incarnation than anything.

“Yeah,  _ that’s  _ what it was,” Jack snaps, his hands balled into fists by his side. He’s afraid that if he steps a foot closer, he’ll punch the Doctor. “You’ve  _ always  _ been dismissive of me.  _ Always.  _ I rebuilt the entirety of Torchwood in your image, in your honor, and you refused to trust me, to see past your own sentiments and prejudice. You disabled my vortex manipulator because you didn’t trust me not to use it, which is a bunch of bullshit considering I’m a trained Time Agent. I’m not the one who refuses to learn how to properly fly a TARDIS!  _ And you know what?  _ I could have really used the vortex manipulator at times.” A beat. “All I ever did was to try and save the world, to try and make you proud.”

“The reason you attempted to save the world so many times,” says the Doctor, unflinchingly, “is because you’re the one who placed it in danger.”

And doesn’t that hit like a knife to the heart, almost worse than the dizziness Jack currently feels. “I’m the reason…” Jack repeats weakly before he finds his words again. “I’m the reason…  _ Do you know how much I’ve lost over the years, lost because of Torchwood, because I decided to play hero? _ ” Menacingly, he takes a step forward and feels a twinge of satisfaction when the Doctor matches it with a step back. “I lost my friends.” Everyone at Torchwood Three who was ever kind to him. Alex. Colchester. Tyler. Orr. “I lost my family.” Tosh. Owen. Gwen. Ianto. “I sacrificed my own grandson to save Earth, and not one day passes by, even thousands of years later, that I am not ashamed of that.” His grin is wolfish, angry,  _ hurt.  _ “I’ve suffered for you, Doctor. I had spent a year of my life tortured for you. I have faced death again and again and  _ again _ in your name, Doctor. And you have the audacity to stand here and tell me that I’m the reason the world was in danger.” A beat. “That I’m responsible for my own suffering.” 

The Doctor says nothing now, only gazing at Jack with an indecipherable expression. His arms are crossed over his chest.

“You may have shaped me into a brave man, Doctor,” Jack says, finally, tiredly, “but it was my decisions that made me a hero.”

Finally, finally, the Doctor smiles, the expression sad but prideful and entirely unexpected. “That was the truth you needed to hear,” he says.

Then he takes a step back, and Jack watches in bewilderment as the Doctor begins to erupt with golden light. 

He’s going through a regeneration, Jack realizes faintly. Jack’s only seen this a few times before, once on the TARDIS, with Rose and Donna.

Blinded by the light, he can scarcely see when the Doctor melts into the next one Jack knows. Wild hair and intense eyes and a brown duster coat and a brown pinstripe suit Ianto hated and colorful Converses. Then within the same burst of light, he changes again. Boyish face, dark hair, tweed, and the ugliest bowtie Jack’s ever seen.

Then again. Stern, bushy eyebrows and a shock of grey-white hair and a ratty, holey jumper and a black coat. And again. Bright blond hair like Rose’s, hazel eyes that hold the stars, a lilac-colored coat, yellow braces, a rainbow shirt.

They continue changing, cycling and melting through regenerations Jack hasn’t even met yet, the light growing bright and brighter until Jack’s forced to look away. There’s a sudden noiseless explosion, almost like a supernova, before Jack’s left in the dark again, all warmth and life gone from this hallway on Satellite Five where he died for the first time.

“What,” begins Jack, eyes narrowed, his knuckles, heart, and entire body aching, “the fuck was that?” He feels like an open wound,  _ aching  _ and throbbing.

There is no reply. Of course there isn’t.

So he steps forward and walks down the hallway. He walks down the hallway, hopefully further towards Ianto, and into another memory.

* * *

Faintly golden sunlight drifts through the neat bedroom, casting a bright glare against the eyelids of the occupants of the cozy bed. Ianto’s content state of grogginess and cuddling is rudely interrupted by the shrieking of an alarm, and thus, his day begins.

He feels the usual flicker of bewilderment and surprise at finding a woman, at finding Lisa, in his bed, but soon, he’s too preoccupied to take note of it. The odd electric current down his spine is also just as easily ignored when he steps towards the bedroom door. 

Eira and Elinor are playing with their dolls, and Ianto takes a moment, unseen, to smile fondly at his daughters before diverting their attention and dressing them. He herds them into the kitchen, begins breakfast, and brews just enough coffee to kickstart his brain. Lisa comes to trade duties with him, and he showers and dresses in a pinstriped suit of his own.

Ianto kisses Lisa goodbye and hurries their daughters out the door, dropping them off at preschool before heading to the National Museum.

After a second - and later, third - cup of coffee, he sets to work on his files and on overseeing the exhibits. Lunch comes quickly, and Ianto finds himself seated at a bench in the museum plaza with fellow curator Aditi, a brown paper bag containing a sandwich made by Lisa in hand.

“Sandwich?” Aditi teases him. “You should have gone to lunch with Al and the others.”

“Hey, it’s the thought that counts,” Ianto replies distractedly before he bites into his sandwich, surprised to taste mustard inside.

Ianto’s mid-conversation with Aditi when his gaze sweeps around the plaza and he notices a broad-shouldered man in a blue-grey greatcoat standing several meters away. He’s very obviously handsome, with old-fashioned, Hollywood good looks - sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, dark hair, sea-colored eyes that are watching Ianto and Aditi intently. Ianto feels the odd electric current pass over him again, but it’s softer, not as painful. There’s an odd warmth spreading in his heart at the sight of the man, of this greatcoated phantom.

“-kids?” Aditi is asking when Ianto manages to tear his gaze away from the phantom. She is delicately balancing her glass container of rice and curry on her knee, spoon slotted between two fingers.

“Huh?” Ianto says. “Could you possibly repeat that? I was a bit distracted.” Aditi laughs at him but obliges, but Ianto is paying no more attention the second time around.

His thoughts are still on the man. He wants to ask Aditi if she can see the phantom as well, but every good sense in him tells him not to.

Finally, Ianto gives into his burning urge and glances back at the plaza. The man is still there, standing right there and watching them with a placid expression, unbothered by the children running amok around his legs. He looks out of place, too magnetic, too  _ much  _ for this normality of tourists and families out here in the plaza.

Ianto recognizes the man vaguely, knows that he knows him, but can’t place him, almost if the man’s adistant memory his mind never bothered to store. And he’s surprised by the growing sense of unease and  _ wrongness _ he feels. Except, when his eyes land on the man again, those sensations abide briefly.

As if, in every bit of this  _ wrongness,  _ this man, this phantom in a greatcoat, is the only bit of  _ right. _

The next time Ianto glances out, searching for the man, he is no longer there, Ianto is not surprised, distracted by the returning unease and  _ wrongness. _

He and Adti stand, tossing their rubbish away, and return to work. He checks in with his assistant Al about the dismantlement of an old museum exhibit, drinks another cup of coffee, and then heads home to a flat full of noise and life. Lisa cooks at the stove, their twins playing with large Legos in the living room.

He pulls Lisa into his arms, kissing her gently and ignoring how the phantom’s blue eyes burned into him.

Why does this, Ianto’s happiness, Ianto’s life, suddenly feel like  _ betrayal? _ Feel  _ wrong? _

“Go wash up and set the table,” Lisa orders, shooing him with an adoring smile Ianto can’t find the strength to return.

This dizzying sense of bewilderment and falsity weighs on his mind as they feed Eira and Elinor dinner, pasta landing messily on the floor; as he cleans the kitchen with a mop and readies lunch for tomorrow; even as he joins Lisa’s side as she finishes up a bedtime stories to their daughters.

When Lisa asks whether he wants wine, his response is distant enough that she gives him an odd look but settles on the couch beside him anyways. But when Ianto attempts to turn on the telly, she stops him.

“What’s wrong, Ianto?” she inquires, eyes soft with concern, and this time, it doesn’t even take the wine for everything to come spilling out Ianto; there’d always been something about Lisa Hallett that compelled him to share himself with her.

(He doesn’t even stop to wonder why he’s just referred to Lisa in past tense. As if Lisa is not here, not this woman before him. As if Lisa is gone, dead.)

“Sometimes, on days like today, I can’t recognize what my life has become,” he admits, Lisa watching him astutely. “Everything feels weird and unbelievable. Like it never happened.”

“That’s because it did,” replies Lisa, softly, reassuringly. “It did happen. This is your life now, Ianto.”

“Then why does it sometimes feel surreal?” he asks, voice quiet. “Unreal, even.”

“Because you’re happy,” she tells him gently, her eyes bright and glowing, cheeks flushed from the wine, Ianto notices dully. “You’re so happy you can scarcely believe it.”

A minute later, it catches up to him. The wine. There is no wine. They aren’t drinking any. But they were. Last night...weren’t they? But he also swears he was holding a glass of wine only moments previous. At least he can feel the sense-memory, the smooth glass against his skin, dry smokiness of the wine.

“If I’m happy,” Ianto begins, “then why does this all feel  _ wrong?  _ Fake?” And he shudders when he realizes he’s landed on it, on why he’s felt uneasy all day. “I don’t want this to be fake, because I’m happy, even if this feels  _ wrong.  _ But why does it feel wrong? Why do you feel distant when you’re sitting here right next to me?”

Now, Lisa’s brow has furrowed in concern. “How long have you been feeling like this, Ianto?” she asks. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

He glances down at his hands, a sudden lump in his throat, his eyes burning. He doesn’t want this to be fake. He’s happy, he swears he is. He’s always been happy and in love when it came to Lisa Hallett.

When it came…  _ When  _ it came to Lisa Hallett. Because Lisa Hallett is…

“You’re dead,” he blurts out in sudden realization, and she flinches back. “This all feels  _ wrong  _ because you’re dead! You’ve been dead for thousands of years. You died in the Hub.” 

Abruptly, the grief returns with no warning, and his chest feels tight, his heart  _ aching.  _ Lisa is dead. He’s grieved her over and over and  _ over  _ again.

This creature sat before him wearing Lisa Hallett’s face smiles chillingly. “I wish you hadn’t figured that out, Ianto Jones,” it says calmly. “We had a lovely few lives together.”

Then it snaps its fingers, and the world darkens around Ianto.

_ The man in the plaza, the phantom in the greatcoat,  _ Ianto realizes before he too fades,  _ that was Jack. He came for me. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooooo! Final parrrrrrrt right after I took a pretty successful midterm if I do say so myself. Hope you enjoy this! There's no next spinoff planned for right, but I'll figure one out for the next few months, but feel free to suggest what you might like to see in this verse!

Purposeful in his strides, Jack walks out from the gloomy hallway on Satellite Five where he died for the first time. The next room is another room that he recognizes, a room he dreads that he recognizes. He inhales sharply, his blood chilling in his veins. His heart rate picks up, the rapid drumbeat of a war march, a death march. He recognizes this room; he’s walked into one of the worst memories of his long, eternal life.

There’s a hideous red and black tile floor beneath Jack’s familiar brown boots. There’s a large glass tank that takes up most of the room, and it’s filled with ominous blue-tinted fog. Just beyond the thick hazy veil, a looming figure can be made out, many-limbed and thrashing and spewing viscous liquid. Red lights flicker, threatening shadows lunging and retreating. For a long moment, Jack remembers the burning in his lungs to match the burning of his eyes, his vision so blurry from tears he can no longer see, the lifeless body he held in his arms as heavy as the weight of the world. He is Sisyphus, and he’s fighting the losing battle to stay awake, to stay alive, to roll his stone uphill and escape the gaping jaws of death.

This is the place of nightmares, a room that has haunted Jack relentlessly for ages. This is where Jack lost half of his heart, of his soul, not to be reunited with him for two millennia; this is where Ianto Jones died, for the first time. 

This is Thames House.

Jack almost expects to see himself still huddled on the floor, desperately clutching Ianto for dear life, almost as if, if he holds onto Ianto hard enough, he can keep his lover from slipping off into death.

He is not there. Nor is Ianto.

( _ “It’s all my fault.” _

_ “No, it’s not.” _

_ “Don’t speak. Save your breath.” _

_ “I love you.” _

_ “Don’t. Ianto? Ianto. Ianto, stay with me. Ianto, stay with me, please. Stay with me. Stay with me, please.” _

_ “Hey. It was good, yeah?” _

_ “Yeah.” _

_ “Don’t forget me.” _

_ “Never could.” _

_ “A thousand years’ time you won’t remember me.” _

_ “Yes, I will. I promise. I will. Ianto. Ianto? Don’t go. Don’t leave me, please. Please don’t.” _ )

Jack shivers, remembering how thin and raspy and weak Ianto’s voice had sounded, how Ianto had pleaded with Jack to remember him, to carry him in his heart forever, had told Jack he loved him. And how Jack had refused, thinking that if he could stop Ianto from this deathbed confession of love, if he could deny this, then Ianto wouldn’t die, that Ianto would stay with him longer. Longer, not forever.

Even thousands of years later, the grief, the dizzying sorrow, the pain, none of it has faded. Jack remembers it all as clearly as it was yesterday, and now, he remembers it  _ worse. _ Every memory, every emotion, is amplified by the fact that Ianto’s gone again. His husband is missing. Jack hasn’t laid eyes on his handsome face, hasn’t heard his beloved Welsh accent, hasn’t held Ianto in his arms, for over a year now.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed in the outside world since he entered this hellscape, but in his heart, it feels as if it’s been an eternity.

Who knows? It could have been. They’re both immortal; they’ll survive death, but no one, not even immortals, deserves unimaginable pain. 

He steps further inside the room, and the air before the tank shimmers, a hazy mirage that hovers momentarily in the atmosphere before solidifying. Slowly, trickling outwards, the air becomes dirty boots that are usually shined to a fault, dusty suit trousers with pinstripes, then a matching waistcoat buttoned over a pristine white dress shirt and navy tie, then shoulders and a neck and finally a head. The figure is faced away, but Jack knows the face by heart - sharp cheekbones, a nick over one cheek from the Hub explosion, blazing crystalline blue eyes, pink lips tugged into a fierce expression. 

Ianto stands, facing the tank of the creatures that killed him. Jack dares not approach him, his breath nearly stilling in his lungs. When Ianto finally speaks, he says, quietly, “When I died, I died thinking it was the first and only time I would die. I died thinking I was dying for a worthwhile cause.”

“What do you think now?” asks Jack, knowing full well that this likely isn’t actually Ianto but momentarily not caring. It’s so wonderful to see his husband again, and he finally steps forward, his fingers flexing by his side with the urge to reach for Ianto, to take his hand, to hold him. He resists the urge, convinces himself that his eyes feasting on Ianto’s broad back is enough; he’s a man dying of thirst suddenly presented with the water he’s so desperately required, but he needs to stop himself from draining the well dry.

Ianto turns, and Jack finds his breath rushing out of his lungs with how beautiful he looks, how cold his expression is. “Now,” Ianto begins, “now, I know that it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth dying for you.” And that  _ hurts _ ; Jack’s heart seizes, his chest suddenly too tight, every muscle in his body going slack, because this is his worst nightmare, isn’t it? Ianto regretting? Which means that Ianto’s next words feel like a death blow. Ianto’s eyes are hard chips of glittering ice when he says, “You don’t love me as much as I love you. You never did.”

Jack’s eyes burn with unshed tears, his heart  _ aching.  _ He takes a step back, swept away by the force of the  _ pain  _ in Ianto’s expression. “That’s not fair,” he protests, his words as weak as he feels. “I love you. I love you more than you possibly even imagine, Ianto.”

Abruptly, he remembers their vows at their wedding, only a few years prior even if, at this point, it feels like ages ago.

_ “Ianto Jones, I nearly gave you my heart when you gave me a pteranodon. But it wasn’t until you were dying in my arms that I realized you already had it. You’d taken my heart from me, gotten me to love you, without either of us knowing. I don’t know what I would do without you. I love you, Ianto Jones, and want an eternity with you.” _

And Ianto’s responding vows:

_ “Jack- Javic Thane, you are an extraordinary man who fell for an ordinary Welshman. As you said, I didn’t realize I loved you until it was too late, but… now, we have all the time in the universe, and there’s no one I would rather spend eternity with. I love you.” _

Jack didn’t think it possible, but Ianto becomes colder, almost sneering. “If you really loved me,” he says, “you would have found me during those two thousand years.” Jack’s already shaking his head to deny it, frozen under the unsympathetic gaze of his husband, a man whose face he’s seen shine with every range of emotion but never this one. In some form or another, Ianto’s always  _ cared,  _ always reacted, angry and devastated when he punched Jack after Lisa was discovered, pleading and quiet when he asked Jack to kiss him for the first time, in tears and ecstatic at their wedding. But now… he’s stony and unfeeling, as if he’s hardened his heart against Jack. “I wasted two thousand years searching for you. I never wanted this,  _ any of this. _ ” The words are nearly growled. “I never wanted immortality or marriage or  _ this life  _ with you.” 

“You don’t mean that,” says Jack, but this time, he sounds stronger, more certain. He takes a step forward, advancing on his husband.

The other man doesn’t blink. “I do,” he replies. “I do mean that.”

But Jack’s already shaking his head. “You don’t,” he tells Ianto, except this man isn’t actually Ianto Jones. “You don’t mean that. The real Ianto Jones would never say this, would never doubt my feelings for him. I love Ianto with all my heart, and Ianto knows that.” He takes another step forward. “You’re not Ianto. You’re me. You’re a figment of my fears, of my worst nightmares. That’s what all of this,” - he waves a hand in the general direction of the room around them - “has been. My father and Gray, the Doctors, now this, it’s all been me. My fears, my nightmares. Whatever has created this hellscape has psychic abilities, and it’s linked to my mind. I created my own nightmares, my own demons.” He shakes his head. “But I’ve had enough. No more.”

“You can’t leave,” warns the creature wearing Ianto Jones’s face. “You’ll never be able to leave.”

Jack snorts and turns to face a door on the other side of the room; it’s a mirror of the one he originally entered from, and it wasn’t there a moment previous. “See,” he tells fake-Ianto, “that’s where you’re wrong. My mind created this place, and thus, it obeys my will. No more of this.”

He advances forward, heading towards the door, and reaches for the handle. But before he tugs it open, he glances back and smiles.

“You’ll never be able to escape, Jack Harkness,” the creature of his mind hisses. 

“I will always be able to escape,” Jack replies, “as long as I remember the truth. And the truth is this - I love Ianto Jones, and he loves me. There’s no doubting that, for either of us.” 

Then, wearing that trademark cocky smirk that irritates so many of his enemies, Jack winks at the creature, tugs the door he’s forcibly carved through the fabric of his own memory open, and walks right out, into a Cardiff-based flat littered with children’s toys.

* * *

Faintly golden sunlight drifts through the neat bedroom, casting a bright glare against the eyelids of the occupants of the cozy bed. Stirring beneath the soft sheets, Ianto quietly moans and cuddles against the side of the warm body next to him. They lay together in contented peace for uncountable minutes until the silence is shattered by the shrieking of an alarm. Both groan.

The other occupant of the bed rolls over, slamming a hand towards the alarm clock and lifting their head to peek at the time, and bites back a curse.

“Time to get up?” asks Ianto amusedly, words slurring with sleep.

“Yeah,” says a quiet feminine voice. “Time to get the kiddos up for preschool.”

Unknowingly, Ianto frowns; the voice hadn’t been what he was expecting. He turns over, but any doubt, any expectation of a familiar, solid male body, evaporates when he finds the lithe limbs and smooth dark skin and clever eyes and gorgeous smile of his wife, Lisa Hallett.

“It’s your turn,” he tells her, pouting. “I got them ready yesterday.”

Lisa laughs kindly, winding her arms around her husband’s neck and snuggling closer. Her bare legs drift against his, making Ianto acutely aware that they are both naked, and his cock takes sudden interest. “No,” she tells him, smirking, “we decided yesterday that this entire week it was your turn.”

That’s right. They had.

“Could I convince you otherwise?” Ianto asks mischievously, and he cants his head to press his lips to Lisa’s, rolling them together until she sprawls on top of him for their sudden morning snog. 

Grimacing, she pulls away. “No kissing before you brush your teeth,” she says, running her tongue against her teeth with an outraged expression Ianto privately finds adorable.

Ianto sighs. “Well, then,” he replies, and flips them back so she’s beneath him again, delving a hand between her legs, “there’s no kissing involved here.”

Her protests about lacking time and having to get up to get ready quickly turn to moans as Ianto works his deft fingers along her warm folds, stroking and applying  _ just enough  _ pressure until she’s squirming between him,  _ soaking wet. _ Lisa spreads her thighs, and he pushes inside her until her legs wrap tightly around his back.

Their bodies move in symphony, well-learned to each other. As he thrusts, she welcomes him in, her walls fluttering around his cock, Lisa gasping and keening as Ianto mouths down the slope of her breasts, worshipping her as he always does. In turn, she squeezes down on him and runs her nails along the back of his neck, where his hairline ends, just like she knows he likes. 

He spills into her with a quiet moan of  _ Lisa  _ before pulling out and burying his head between her thighs, wringing wonderful whines and whimpers and breathy gasps from her until she quivers, her thighs bearing down tightly around his head, and comes.

Lisa slumps back to the bed, panting, and gives him an affectionate look. “Okay, we did have time for that, but now you have to go wake up our children unless you want  _ them  _ to come find us.” When he cuddles into the blankets, she smacks his bare arse, and he hisses. “Go, you lazy bastard.”

“Okay, okay,” he acquiesces, and reluctantly slips from the bed, pulling back on the sweats and sleep shirt he’d abandoned the night previous when he and Lisa had fallen into bed. Knowing that Lisa will eventually barricade herself in the bathroom to get ready, he stumbles down the hall to their toddlers’ bedroom and pushes the door open, only to find both girls already awake and playing with their dolls on the floor.

He blinks,before desperately hoping that he and Lisa had not been too loud. Or, failing that, that the soundproofing in their flat is enough. 

“What are the two of you doing awake?” he asks, kneeling down beside the twins as he eyes their dolls curiously. 

“Playing with our dolls, Dad,” Eira says wisely as Elinor nods, and Ianto attempts to stifle his laugh. Lisa keeps saying that the older and older the twins get, the more they behave like their father.

Funny to think that as a kid himself, Ianto could not have imagined himself having kids. Then he met Lisa. Now, he can’t imagine life without Lisa, Eira, or Elinor; he adores all of them.

Ianto smiles, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind Eira’s ear - both girls have inherited Lisa’s coloring and eyes but also his hair type and facial features. “That was a good plan, but now it’s time for both of you to put your dolls away and to get ready for preschool.” His tone is soft but stern, and both girls, despite their severe pouts, obey.

He helps Eira into jeans and a green jumper, but when he attempts the same for Elinor, she fixes him with the sternest expression he’s seen on a three-year-old until he’s forced to trade out the matching green jumper for a red-striped one, similar to a tie she’s seen him wear. 

Not even four years old, and they are both already seeking their own individuality. Ianto fears their teen years.

He checks the contents of their backpacks and adds the folders full of their homework before carrying both backpacks to the kitchen, ushering both girls before him.

He pours them both small glasses of orange juice and bowls of a cereal that he and Lisa had found as an acceptable compromise half-way between disgustingly healthy adult cereal and the colorful sugar nightmares marketed to kids. As they begin to eat, he also cuts up slices of apples that he knows he’ll have to force feed them later. Then he sets to work brewing coffee before sorting out the twins’ lunches. He or Lisa always prepare their lunch the night previous, so all he has to do is warm it and box it as appropriate.

One cup of coffee later, lunch is done, and Ianto finally begins on actual breakfast. Toast, a few strips of bacon, and some additional fruit. He manages to wolf down his own toast, saving the bacon for later, before he has - as predicted - to bargain with Eira and Elinor for them to eat their apples.

When Lisa finally emerges in the kitchen, showered and dressed in the sleek pantsuit that is the uniform for her job as a City Hall bureaucrat, Ianto is arguing with Elinor about eating an apple slice. Lisa pecks both their daughters on the head but avoids kissing Ianto; he has yet to brush his teeth.

Then they switch. Ianto takes the world’s quickest shower and dresses in the pinstriped suit and red shirt and grey tie he picked out last night. He checks his work briefcase, ensuring everything’s packed, before returning to the kitchen. Now he pulls Lisa in for a long kiss, ignoring their children’s curious eyes, and indulges in his bacon and a second slice of toast before he packs the lunch Lisa prepped him. Lucky for him, she also cleaned the coffee machine.

“Have a good day at work,” he tells her as she slips out the door, not before another kiss and a hug each from Eira and Elinor. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she calls back.

Ianto bundles his daughters into his Audi and drives them to their preschool. He parks and leads them inside. Immediately, they rush off to play with their friends while an amused Ianto hands their backpacks to the smiling preschool owner Megan.

“Busy day, Mr. Jones?” she jokes after he fills her in on how he found Eira and Elinor awake early today.

He beams, waving goodbye to his daughters. “No busier than the usual.”

Finally, Ianto arrives at the National Museum, where he works as a curator, and sets the coffee machine in the breakroom to brew, much to his colleagues’ pleasure, and takes his well-deserved cup of coffee to his office before he settles in for the day. There will be a few artifacts arriving this afternoon that he will be required to inspect, as well as the dismantling for an exhibit to oversee, but for now, all he must do is check the maintenance files for their current exhibits.

He takes great joy in reorganizing his file cabinets again, ordering them from exhibit to artifact and then alphabetically. (One can never be  _ too  _ organized is Ianto’s life philosophy.) Then he takes a brief break with another cup of coffee.

A few hours later, his assistant Al brings him a new stack of files to sign off on for the new artifacts. Apparently they’ve arrived early, but he still decides to inspect them later.

“What’s your plan for lunch, Ianto?” Al asks. “A few of us were thinking of going out to that new Thai place.”

Ianto shakes his head. “Maybe tomorrow. Lisa already made me lunch today. I’ll eat out on the plaza with Aditi.”

Another hour later, it’s time for lunch. Feeling very middle-aged, Ianto takes his brown paper bag lunch and unwraps the basic sandwich Lisa made him. A few minutes later, Aditi, a short pretty Indian woman and a fellow curator, joins him on the same bench. They watch the tourists stroll about, hand-in-hand, and birds land and take off from the pavement.

“Sandwich?” she asks with a critical eye. “You should have gone to lunch with Al and the others.” She herself is balancing a Tupperware full of rice and orange curry that she’s busy mixing with a spoon.

“Hey,” Ianto says, smiling, “it’s the thought that counts.” He bites into his sandwich and is surprised to taste mustard; he thought they ran out of the condiment yesterday but apparently not. Within ten minutes, half his sandwich is gone, and he and Aditi make idle conversation. She offers gossip about their coworkers, and Ianto’s not too haughty to pretend he’s not  _ not  _ listening.

In return, he relays how he found the twins working on their fingerpainted masterpiece on the wall once when they were younger, and Aditi tosses her head back and laughs.

“They’re quite precocious, I see,” she jokes. “They got the best bits of you and Lisa.”

He nods. “Speaking of which. Lisa wants to have you and Helen over for dinner some time this week.”

Aditi hums, setting down her spoon into her Tupperware and cracking the lid back on. “I’ll ask Helen, but I think she’s free. It’s a bit of a slow week over at the florist’s.”

They joke a bit more but are mostly done with lunch, so eventually, they tidy up the area around the bench and take their rubbish to the bin before returning to work. Ianto grabs a few files from his office and treks across the museum to where the new shipments come in. All artifacts are present and accounted for and are in good condition. Smiling, he thanks the delivery worker who nods and finally departs. 

One large duty of his day done, Ianto moves to the old exhibit and checks in with Al, who has been supervising everything. After checking that the dismantlement is all in order, Ianto leaves them to work. He spends the rest of his day reading old files and answering emails. Finally, around five pm, he packs his briefcase back up and locks his office door.

The flat is full of life and noise when he returns. Lisa already picked Eira and Elinor up from preschool on her way home, and she’s busy cooking dinner while they both play with the large Legos - Ianto refused to buy the small ones after he stepped on them on too many times; plus, they’re also choking hazards - and babble at each other. Pop music streams from a radio in the corner of the kitchen, a light-hearted jazzy soundtrack to Ianto’s family and life.

A wide smile splits Ianto’s face as he walks through the door and observes his family. Setting down his briefcase, he pulls Lisa back against him from where she’s stirring pasta sauce on the stove and twists to kiss her, but instead of playfully ordering him to set the table or smiling, she stiffens in his arms, turning to glance over his shoulder. He follows her gaze, and his jaw drops. Because an unfamiliar man has just walked through the front door that Ianto accidentally left open.

This man, this  _ stranger  _ in Ianto’s family’s flat, is unexpectedly handsome, and Ianto is bewildered that  _ this  _ is one of the first observations he makes about this intruder. Except something about this man, this blue-eyed man wearing a nearly ridiculous antiqued greatcoat, is  _ familiar.  _ Familiar in the sense of a dream Ianto half-remembers, familiar in the sense of a hazy memory from Ianto’s childhood, familiar in the sense that Ianto knows his heart knows this man even when his mind is telling him that he’s never seen this man before in his damn life.

While Ianto continues staring at this unexpected guest, stunned, Lisa yanks herself from his grasp and heads straight for Eira and Eleanor, pushing them behind her. She stands protectively, eyes fierce, mouth twisted into a frown, looking every inch the woman Ianto fell in love with. “Who the  _ fuck  _ are you?” she demands, and while the twins glance up in alarm and curiosity at their mother speaking in a tone they’ve likely never heard her use before, the intruder barely even blinks.

“Funny, I should be asking you the same question,” drawls the intruder, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I’m Captain Jack Harkness,” - he smirks almost proudly, striking a warm chord in Ianto’s heart, even as Ianto’s brow furrows with confusion - “and I’d say you’re Lisa Hallett, except I know that you’re not. Not actually.”

“What do you mean?” asks Ianto, and the stranger- Jack’s eyes turn to him and stay there, gazing at Ianto with undisguised longing, gazing at him like a man in love. Ianto suppresses a shiver. Who is this man and why is he staring at Ianto like  _ that?  _ Ianto’s instincts scream at him to shield his wife and daughters from this intruder, but he also wants to step forward, towards the man. He doesn’t move. “Why are you in our flat? What do you want with my family?”  _ What do you want with me? _

“I want nothing to do with your family,” Jack tells him gently, approaching him as one would a startled deer. “I can’t want anything with your family. They’re not real.”

“You’re a lunatic,” Ianto replies, frowning. “Of course they’re real. They’re  _ my  _ family,  _ my  _ love,  _ my  _ flesh and blood. They are absolutely real to me.” He turns back to glance at Lisa and his daughters; Lisa’s lips twitch in her frown, Eira and Eleanor attempt to push at her to peek out from behind her. She holds her arms out, effectively blocking them.

Jack’s eyes widen, taking on a strange glimmer of sadness. “Ianto, listen to me,” he says. “I know this all seems real, that your family seems real, this life seems real, but none of it is. You’re trapped somewhere that’s been toying with your mind; we both are.” His lips twitch into a pained smile. “But I’m here now. We can leave. We can go home together now.”

“I am home,” Ianto insists, but he can hear the upward tilt to his words, almost as if they’re forming a question. But they’re not. He’s home, with his family, with the life he’s always wan- 

_ I would have died an aimless Welshman from an estate. I would marry and have kids, but I would never be happy. Not truly. _

They’re his own words, his own thoughts, coming back to haunt him, but he can’t remember speaking them, thinking them. But they’re telling him he never wanted this kind of life, which is blatantly false,  _ right?  _ But he was also so grateful when he moved to London, when he was ultimately recruited by-

“-Torchwood,” Ianto says, and the word feels unfamiliar, stiff, in his mouth, yet he knows that it means  _ something _ to him. Means  _ everything.  _ But he can’t remember what that is.

He stares straight at Jack, who is nodding intently. “Yes, that’s right,” he says, words frenzied with slight desperation. “Torchwood. Remember Torchwood. You worked for them. In London and in-”

“-Cardiff,” says Ianto, because faint hazy memories are coming back to him, watery images of a dark underground base and a ridiculous logo everywhere and a creature screeching that had to be a…  _ pteranodon.  _ A real life fucking dinosaur. And four people. “Owen, Tosh… Gwen. I worked with them… and you were there.” The impression of a dramatic greatcoat flapping in the wind, of pulling that greatcoat over Jack’s broad shoulders. “You were our leader.”

“Yes,” replies Jack, smiling with slight hope, “but I was also more than that. Do you remember? Us?”

Ianto blinks, because at first, he doesn’t. But then he does. 

_ Jones, Ianto Jones. _

_ Nice to meet you, Jones, Ianto Jones. Cap’n Jack Harkness. _

In the warehouse where they’d found the pteranodon - Myfanwy was her name, Ianto remembers, he’d fallen on top of Jack and desperately wanted to kiss him. But he couldn’t. Because Lisa was still alive. Because Lisa was being hidden in a trailer park. Because he could save Lisa.

But he’d failed because the team, his team, because Torchwood had shot Lisa-

“-dead,” says Ianto, turning to his wife. “You’re dead. You died in the Hub. I tried to save you.” His voice wavers as he remembers screaming at Jack, calling Jack a monster, telling him that he wouldn’t save him. (And he hadn’t; he handed Jack over to the Saviour on a silver platter. But he’d also saved Jack, had saved him then, had saved him over and over and over again. They’d saved each other, and now, Jack’s here trying to save him.) “I  _ failed.  _ You died… oh,  _ Lisa. _ ”

“He’s lying,” Lisa says suddenly. She steps forward, leaving their daughters - except Eira and Elinor aren’t their daughters then, if what Jack is saying is right; they’re only figments of this reality, spectres made flesh by his mind. “He’s lying, Ianto. This intruder’s broken into our flat, and he’s trying to manipulate you.” She places a comforting hand on Ianto’s bicep. “Snap out of it, babe. We’re real. Eira and Elinor are real.” Her eyes are soft and pleading. “ _ I am real.  _ I love you, Ianto. Believe in that, believe in us.”

“Then,” Ianto begins, his breath ragged as he inhales, voice thick with emotion. Unshed tears sting his eyes. “Then why do I remember you dying, Lisa?” He can feel some of those tears slip free, sliding down his cheeks. Jack stays silent, watching them, but his gaze still burns. It always has. “That’s a horrible memory to have of someone you love, but it’s too realistic for me to have made it up. Why do I remember you dying?”

Because he remembers meeting Lisa and falling in love with her and marrying her and having Eira and Elinor, but he’s also starting to remember his life with Jack, falling in love, losing Tosh and Owen, dying, searching for Jack for two thousand years, finding him, marrying him. It’s not all there, but it’s slowly coming back.

There’s two full lives worth of memories warring in his head, and Ianto can’t tell which one of them is real.

Lisa looked radiant on their wedding day, in a white lace gown and a glittering tiara in her short hair, and she whispered how much she loved him as he slid the ring on her finger. Their families had applauded and cheered, and Lisa had dragged a reluctant Ianto to dance with her at their reception.

_ Except that never happened,  _ a treacherous part of Ianto whispers. 

He can remember just as vividly him and Jack on a craggy Boeshane cliff, surrounded by a small crowd of guests, Ianto in his familiar suit and Jack in the greatcoat, being wed in a handfasting ceremony, the vows he was so nervous for. And afterwards, snogging each other over the threshold of their flat, whispering confessions and secrets into each other’s skin.

Ianto can remember them both, remember it all, and he wants to scream. His head is beginning to burn with the strain of his memory. He rubs a thumb along the smooth, shiny surface of his wedding ring, pressing it against his finger until he can feel the familiar raised inscription on the inside of the ring. It’s always been there… but Ianto now realizes that he’s never actually noticed it, never actually seen it, just known it was there. 

“Ianto, please,” says Jack, sounding a little helpless. “You’re starting to believe me; I can see it in your eyes. I  _ need  _ you to believe me. I love you; I’ve walked through hell for you.” His eyes and cheeks are damp from tears. He reaches for Ianto, and on Jack’s ring finger, Ianto finds a ring that is an exact match for his own. “I need  _ you, _ Ianto Jones. I need you back. I can’t keep doing this.”

“I don’t…” Ianto says futilely. “I don’t…” He sniffles, glancing between Lisa and Jack, the two he has to choose between. “ _ I don’t know what to do. _ ”

“Believe me, Ianto Jones,” Jack says. “Believe me when I tell you that our life together is real and that this,” - he waves his hand to encompass Ianto’s flat - “isn’t.”

Carefully, he approaches Ianto and takes his face in his hands, cupping Ianto’s cheek gently. Then he leans in and kisses Ianto, and it feels so right, so perfect, that Ianto’s heart nearly stops.

Jack leans back, and the pain in his eyes causes Ianto’s heart to  _ wrench.  _

“I’m leaving now,” Jack says. He nods towards the outline of a door that’s appeared in the wall next to Ianto. “I’m walking right through that door and out of this reality. It’s your decision, Ianto. It’s your decision which life you choose, whether you follow me or not. Just remember…” He inhales sharply, giving Ianto a sad smile. “Just remember that I love you.”

He steps past Ianto and reaches for the handle of the newly created door. Pulling it open, he hovers at the threshold before glancing back at Ianto, his smile not flickering. Finally, he steps through. The door shuts, taking Jack Harkness with it.

Ianto stares at the door, stunned. He turns to Lisa, who is watching him with wide, expectant eyes. Their daughters are clinging to her legs.

Their life together, everything they’ve had… Ianto’s loved it. It’s all felt so real to him. 

But the moment Jack touched him, the moment he kissed Ianto, it felt like a part of Ianto’s heart, a part of his soul, that he didn’t even realize was missing had slid back into place. 

“I’m sorry,” Ianto says to the ghost of Lisa Hallett and this life that he had, this life that he loved, this life that he doesn’t truly believe in, and then he turns and follows Jack out the door.

* * *

Jack waits there, in the gloomy, lurking darkness, ever-so-aware of the shades that mill around them, unable to be seen but still heavily felt. He waits there, waits for who-knows-how-long because immortality has taught him patience. He keeps waiting, his hope never fading, and it doesn’t need to, it won’t, because he feels the shift in the darkness when Ianto finally steps out behind him.

Ianto has followed him into the darkness, and Jack wants with his whole being to glance back, to not reach for his husband, but he remembers the words of Charon. 

_ “I will take you where your husband is. You must battle yourself to find him, battle your own demons. When you do find him, you will have to convince him to come back with you. Should you fail or should you look back at Ianto while bringing him back to the surface, Ianto will remain trapped forever. You will return alone.” _

“Two steps down,” Jack mutters to himself, “one last to go.” He raises his voice so it’ll carry to Ianto. “Glad to have you back. We’ve always joked that we’d follow each other into death, but I didn’t think it’d be so literal.”

( _ “You’ll never be alone again.” _

_ “Promise?” Ianto asks, nuzzling his nose against the sweaty curve of Jack’s neck. _

_ “I promise,” replies Jack. “I will follow you anywhere, even in death.” _

_ Ianto wrinkles his nose, snorting goodnaturedly. “That doesn’t mean much now, considering that neither of us can die.” _ )

There is no response. Jack didn’t expect there to be. He starts walking forward, moving through the darkness, and he can only trust that Ianto follows him. Ianto has always followed him, chased him across time and space. Why should now be any different?

But in the ever-lingering silence, the urge to turn back, to attempt to peer through the darkness for Ianto,  _ burns. _ No mortal man could ever withstand it, and not even Jack Harkness is strong enough to.

As they advance, Jack can hear Ianto’s footsteps echoing along his own in the darkness. He knows they are not alone, that there’s others out there moving in the darkness, lurking, but he forces himself to ignore them. Three times he catches himself nearly turning back to Ianto, and each time, he forces his gaze down, to where he knows his feet to be.

The fourth time it nearly happens, he knows he has to take precaution, has to distract himself from the tantalizing echo of Ianto’s footfalls.

“Have I ever told you how my parents met?” Jack begins. “How my parents met and fell in love?” He smiles, remembering his mother’s bright eyes and his father’s easy grin when they’d told the story to him and Gray. “They knew each other as well as most do on Boeshane, especially in the community I grew up in, but they never really spoke or interacted, not until school, at least.” He chuckles. “School is where they fell hard and fast for each other. They were in love as much as teenagers could be in love. My father used to say that he and Mom were young fools, idiots really, but I always thought it was very romantic, to have had the chance to learn each other in such different contexts of life.”

Young Javic Thane had been idealistic and hopeful and soft-hearted, but growing up the way he did on Boeshane, that didn’t last long. He learned to harden his heart quickly as a child, a skill that has served him well for the entirety of his life thus far.

Jack continues forward and lets his voice fill the darkness, loud and booming. “Then my mom left. She went to a neighboring colony world, something her family could barely afford, to train to become an artist. Dad was devastated, but his family didn’t exactly have money either, so he couldn’t follow her. So they had to break up. They both thought they’d never see each other again.” A beat. “But fate wasn’t going to stop them, because three years later, Mom came back.”

_ Sounds awfully familiar,  _ he can hear Ianto whispering in his mind, in that endearing dry tone,  _ especially if you swap three years for two millennia.  _ Jack muffles his snort at his own internal humor, his ears straining for that constant sound of Ianto’s footsteps. He doesn’t know how far they’ve traveled or how long they’ve been walking for; this darkness is a void, with no distance, no time, just nothingness and shadows and Jack and Ianto.

“Mom came back,” repeats Jack, and he flashes back to the plain adoration shining in his parents’ expressions the first time they recounted the tale. It wasn’t the first time they told it, but it’s the clearest version Jack remembers, had paid devoted attention to. He’d loved his parents, had wanted their love story for his own. “But Dad didn’t know that. They both went about life, thinking of each other but never reaching out, thinking that the other had moved on.” He sighs. “One day, Mom went to the market. She never could remember what she was searching for - it was always something or the other when she told Gray and me, the detail always changing - but she tripped, and my dad caught her.”

His parents had described it as the most romantic moment of their lives, all time slowing down to a fault, just Javic’s mother and father caught in each other’s arms, her gazing up at him in awe, his breath caught in his lungs, because here was the girl he’d always thought was the most beautiful of Boeshane whom he’d loved and she was back and she’d found him again. The older Javic got, the more cynical he became, the more he thought such a moment wishful embellishment, the more he scoffed upon remembering his parents’ description… until a quiet, well-mannered Welshman lured him to a warehouse in search of a pteranodon and then fell on him.

Now, Jack’s voice cracks slightly, becoming thick. His eyes burn with tears. “They were so in love, Ianto. I thought that one day I could love someone like my mother and father loved each other. We weren’t well-off, but they always made sure Gray and I were happy and put our happiness before theirs. They loved us and loved each other, and when my mother lost my father, she was  _ shattered. _ ” He inhales sharply, holding back a sob. 

He hasn’t discussed what happened to his family in the aftermath of the attack often, not even with Ianto, and those memories… oh, those memories are still so  _ painful. _

_ I’ll tell you, Ianto,  _ he swears to himself.  _ I’ll tell him everything once we’re safe. There will be no more secrets between us. _

“I wish they could have met you,” Jack says. “I wish my mother and father could have seen you, Ianto. They would have loved you, thought you so polite and perfect to help keep their Javic in check.” He sniffles, and the tears begin trickling down his cheeks. But there’s no point. No point in crying, no point in mourning all he has lost with all he can have. He still has Ianto. They have each other. That is enough. That has to be or Jack will one day no longer be able to go on.

It has to be enough. (It is.)

Onwards and onwards they go, further into the darkness. After a certain point, Jack begins to think that it will never end. He can hear Ianto’s footfalls behind him, or the illusion of them, but he has words no longer. His tears have dried out. He wants out of this darkness, off this godforsaken planet. He never wants to return to this quadrant of the universe again.

Eventually,  _ finally, _ a bright light appears far off in the darkness. The further they walk, the more they approach, the brighter the light becomes until they’re so close that it’s almost blinding.

“Once more unto the breach,” Jack mutters to himself and steps through the light, hoping that Ianto follows. He takes one more step, and he falls-

-gasping back to life in his own body. He is lying in an endless misty field of long grass, staring up at a dark sky with a ghostly sun that burns red fire across the horizon. He’s back on Elysia, and he’s not alone. Lying beside him, as cold and pale as death, is Ianto. Or at least his body.

Jack scrambles onto his knees and pulls Ianto against him, cradling his husband’s body. He cards a gentle hand against Ianto’s hair and cants his head down to kiss Ianto’s lifeless lips.

“Come back to me, Ianto,” he whispers. “I went to hell for you and back; I brought you back with me, I know I did. Wake up. Come back to me.”

Ianto Jones has always been a stubborn man. Stubborn in life, stubborn in death, stubborn in his love for Jack Harkness. And with this stubbornness, he gasps back to life in Jack’s arms, coughing and wheezing, his eyes blearily flickering open and blinking away confused tears. He peers up at Jack, who beams down at him.

“Wha?” he asks quietly, voice hoarse. “Jack? How are…? Where are we?”

Gently, Jack hushes him. “Quiet.” He tweaks Ianto’s nose affectionately. “We’re on Elysia. We’ll talk about what happened when you’re safe, but first, we have to get off this planet.” A beat. “Can you walk?”

Slowly, Ianto nods, and Jack helps him to stand, allowing Ianto to lean on him. He leans in quickly to kiss Ianto thoroughly, resting their foreheads together.

“I missed you so much,” he confesses. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” a bewildered Ianto replies.

Together, Jack and Ianto limp from the field, the mysterious entity of Charon nowhere to be seen, and through the forest, onwards and onwards until they reach the patch of dirt where Jack’s ship is settled. They board the ship, and after settling Ianto in a passenger’s seat, Jack initiates the take-off sequence. Within a few minutes, they are deep in space, Elysia a red smudge in the ship’s windows, quickly receding into the black of the universe.

No one will return to that planet. Jack will personally ensure it. It’s a dangerous place, a hellish place, and no one should go near it. No one should have to suffer how Jack and Ianto did. No one should have to face death so closely.

No one ever will.

* * *

**6001**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Ianto**

In the silence, Ianto struggles to find the words. There is plenty to say between the two of them, sitting here at this round wooden table in their kitchen, but neither knows where to begin. Things are awkward between them now, in the few days since they returned to Boeshane, in the few days while Ianto actually recovered, his memories still not fully returned. Things have never been this awkward, this hesitant before. 

_ Come find me, Jack. Come find me like I found you,  _ he’d told Jack, and Jack had. Ianto has checked his vortex manipulator records in the last few days, watched the recording he sent to Jack, seen the number of times it’s been viewed… countless. As if Jack had played it over and over and over again just to keep himself sane. 

He taps his fingers against the wooden surface of the dining table and glances down to it; it’s oak-colored and smooth, modelled off one Jack swore was in his original home with his family, a Thane family antique lost after Javic left Boeshane, after his mother… Jack had insisted on purchasing it when he saw a merchant with similar furniture in the marketplace, and the nostalgia in his eyes was such that Ianto wasn’t going to deny his husband this even before he actually considered whether he wanted said table himself.

Finally, Ianto begins, “I’m-”

“-sorry,” finishes Jack at the same time. They simultaneously realize that the other was attempting to apologize as well and lock eyes, things as awkward as before.

Ianto hates this. A year without his husband, a year he was scarcely aware of, but still. They shouldn’t be this awkward, shouldn’t be this distant. He coughs quietly, tracing the edge of the table, gathering the courage again.

“I’m sorry,” he begins again, fingers lifting from the table to toy with each other and Jack sits up, alarm touching his eyes. “I’m sorry for leaving. For leaving you. For leaving us.” He inhales sharply, tears beginning to sting his eyes. He wipes them away, dries his eyes. “I’m sorry for making you feel like it was you I was leaving. That was never what I was doing.”

“Ianto, why are you apologizing?” Jack asks, and he lays his hands flat against the surface of the table. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who reacted badly and tried to stop you from going. I didn’t  _ listen _ to you.” He laughs wetly, shaking his head. “We’re both idiots.”

“With that logic,” Ianto replies, smiling slightly, “we’re both at fault.”

Jack nods. “I think we both are. But we also aren’t.” He sighs, glancing away. “It was the planet. That hellscape of a planet. I never want to hear its name again.”

“What was that planet?” Ianto asks quietly. “It felt like no other place I’d been before. How did…”

_ How did I get trapped there?  _ he asks.  _ How did you find me? _

They haven’t necessarily discussed what happened to Jack as he sought to find Ianto, and that’s a conversation that they won’t be having right now. 

“I had to do a lot of digging in the Torchwood Archive and mainly was redirected to many myths or long-lost legends,” begins Jack, “but from what I found, Elysia was an artificial planet created as a graveyard for a species that’s long since died out.” He grimaces. “It’s controlled by an artificial intelligence psychic system that was meant to place psychic echoes of the dead in their own personal paradises.”

“But that’s not what happened to me,” Ianto surmises. Because he certainly hadn’t been living it up in his own personal paradise. 

“No,” sighs Jack. “No, it was not. You died on Elysia, and its system placed you in what it deemed your personal paradise.” His eyes soften now, becoming slightly sad. Ianto wants to reach over, pull his husband’s hands in his, assure him that he has nothing to worry about. But Jack is continuing on. “Except there was one problem. You didn’t die. You kept trying to come back to life and overwhelmed the system because now it had no idea how to deal with you, and it became corrupted, trapping you in something that resembled a time loop.”

“Brilliant,” remarks Ianto with as much sarcasm and bitterness as he can muster. “Just brilliant. I was kept dead and in hell by a rogue AI.  _ Brilliant. _ ” After a brief moment, he glances up at Jack. “And you? What happened to you?”

Jack shrugs. “I entered the system willingly, but at this point, it had become corrupted enough that instead of a personal paradise, it created a hellscape plagued by my own fears, the darkest corners of my mind.” He shudders, lips twitching into a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it frown. “But it couldn’t handle me.” There’s a bit of that familiar Captain Jack Harkness cockiness in his voice. He smirks. “I can’t fault it for that. It couldn’t handle me, so I managed to break free and to pull you out.”

Now, Ianto nods, taking in this knowledge. It takes him a few minutes to process before he’s speaking again. “You got one thing wrong,” he says. “Or rather, the AI did.”

“Yeah?” Jack raises an intrigued eyebrow at him, faking nonchalance, but Ianto can see the poorly-plastered-over hunger in his expression.

“That life I led on Elysia,” says Ianto slowly, rubbing a thumb along the table. “That wasn’t my personal paradise. It hasn’t been in over two thousand years.” A beat. “It was fake. It was a life I once wished I’d had with Lisa, but she’s gone now. Has been for a while. I made my peace with that long ago.”

“Oh,” Jack says, eyes wide, and then falls silent, seemingly searching for words. “Then what is your personal paradise?”

The unabashed hope in his eyes, in his smile, sends Ianto’s heart fluttering. “You are,” he blurts out before waving a general hand in the direction of their kitchen. “This is. Being here with you, being married with you, our home. This is what I want, this is what I love. I wouldn’t ever want any other life.”

And that’s all he manages to say before he finds himself pinned to his chair, being snogged silly by his husband who is suddenly half-perched in his lap. When both of them are sufficiently breathless, Jack leans his forehead against Ianto’s.

“I love you, Ianto,” he says, and his eyes are welling with tears. “I was afraid you regretted  _ us,  _ regretted our life together, regretted  _ me. _ ”

“Regret you, Jack Harkness?” Ianto replies, grinning widely. “I could never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik). I tweet and reblog mostly Torchwood with occasionally amusing commentary on nonsense. Please come talk to me and tell me if/how much you like my fic or like ask me about it on tumblr; all my schoolwork has become remote now, and I have limited social interaction. And if there's any other fool me once spinoffs you wanna see, feel free to ask in the comments!


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